


Red Eyes in the Snow

by NorthernWall



Series: Through These Eyes [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Backstory, Briggs, F/M, Miles-Centric, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:06:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 80,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9401015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernWall/pseuds/NorthernWall
Summary: When Miles first arrived at Fort Briggs, he was sure of only one thing: He was in over his head. Somehow, against all odds, he managed to survive; to become a Briggs' Bear, loyal and true. Only he and she would truly know how.





	1. First Impressions

**Author's Note:**

> Miles is, quite possibly, my favorite character in all FMA. He's so underappreciated, though. So, here's my take on his time at Briggs.
> 
> Happy Reading!

Central Command was a hive of activity; everywhere Miles looked he saw hopeful young officers; Dozens of captains like himself, shipped in from their far-flung outposts for review, eager to make the leap from Captain to Major. He watched wryly as a group of blue-eyed soldiers made their way past him, laughing and talking. He was not inclined to join in their revelry. This was his second sojourn to Central in pursuit of that coveted title. The letters were always complimentary; prasing his outstanding record, referencing his rapid climb through the ranks of Eastern Command. One glance, however, at his deep red eyes and the praise dried up like Ishval’s desert.

“Captain Miles, report for review board.” A dry voice cut through his musing, and he hastened to comply.

“Captain Miles reporting as ordered.” The generals before him barely glanced up from their paperwork, waving him to be seated at ease. Sitting and answering their first perfunctory questions, Miles took a moment to survey the men seated before him. He was startled to see, on the far edge, in the uniform of a Brigadier General, a woman. Unintentionally, he made eye contact. She glared for a moment, and then her eyes widened ever so slightly. Miles expected her to look away, as so many Amestrians did, but she held his gaze steadily and a feeling of unease spread through him. He felt as though she were peering past his eyes into his very soul, and was grateful when a query from the other end of the table gave him the chance to look away.

The review board was, predictably, short and vague. He knew, even before they told him hours later, that he would not be getting the promotion. All throughout, though, only years of military training, and years of bullying before that, kept him from fidgeting to get away from the woman’s piercing stare. Her eyes did not leave him for the duration of the interview, her uncapped pen hanging above the sheet where she was meant to be recording observations. He shouldn’t be surprised, he thought bitterly, it would only take her a moment to write “Ishvalan”, circle “promotion denied”, and then there would be no questions asked.

-

The next day Miles was preparing to board the train that would take him back to Eastern and his dead-end job as a supplies coordinator. In line with dozens of other soldiers, he almost didn’t turn around when a frantic-sounding aide ran up to him calling “Captain!” “Captain Miles!”

He turned, surprised. Had he forgotten something? “Captain Miles, wait! You’ve been reassigned.” She took a second to catch her breath, and handed him a folder. “These are your new orders. Please follow me.”

Bemused, he took off after her, flipping open the folder. Inside, where he was expecting a formal report, was a single piece of paper with a handwritten note:

“Miles- report to Room 302, Central Command. 0700.

Brig. Gen. Armstrong”

He glanced at his watch, it was 0647. Now he understood why the aide was so frantic and double-timed it all the way to the car she had left running just outside the station. On the way back to command, between near-death experiences as the aide rushed through crowded streets, honking at shouting pedestrians, Miles realized this was the first time a military car had been sent for him. He certainly hoped there wasn’t another Captain Miles waiting nervously at the station.

“Go! Third floor!” The aide shouted at him, pulling up as close to the doors as she could get the car. “Hurry!”

Miles pelted from the car, throwing his pack over one shoulder and raced up three flights of consecutive stairs, silently thanking every training officer who had forced him to run laps with a heavily-weighted ruck sack. He skidded to a stop in front of Room 302, and checked his watch trying to calm his heart; 0700, on the dot. He raised a hand to knock when the door flung open.

“You’re late.” It was the woman from the review board. Startled, Miles snapped into a salute, which she returned, irritably. “Come in, then.” She opened the door wider and Miles entered uncertainly. “At ease,” she added as an afterthought. Relaxing his stiff position, Miles glanced around. It was a temporary office, small, grey, and dreary.

“With respect, Ma’am, my orders said 0700.”

There was a whooshing sound and a cold blade pressed against his throat. “Listen well, I don’t repeat myself.” The woman snarled, “You will address me as Sir. You will be on time. You will not use the phrase ‘with respect’. I am not so foolish as to not recognize the disrespect, nor am I so petty as to be bothered by it. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir!” Petty didn’t come close to how he would describe her; unhinged, perhaps, or volatile. There was an almost insane gleam in her eye.

The sword was sheathed again. “I am Brigadier General Armstrong.” She stepped back, surveying him. “I need a new adjutant.”

“Sir?”

“I like your record, Miles.” She wasn’t flattering, it was a simple statement, an observation. “I’ve taken a new post, and my former adjutant was a backstabber. Literally. I beheaded him.” If she noticed the shock on his face, she ignored it. “You were top of your class at the academy, you’re excellent at communications, and you didn’t stab anyone the last time you were passed over for promotion.” There was a long pause. “Well, Captain, do you accept?”

He had the impression he didn’t have a choice, so he hesitated only a moment before replying. “Yes, Sir.”

She grinned, almost wolfishly. “Excellent. We leave immediately. Follow me.” She hefted her own rucksack onto her back and sauntered from the room. Miles fell into step behind her, wondering what on earth had just happened.

-

On the northbound train, Miles kept a close eye as stealthily as he could, on his new commander. She moved stiffly, and seemed to be favoring her right side. She had shot down his offer to carry her pack, though, seeming angry at the very suggestion. He had begun to wonder if he would survive the journey all the way to...Well, she hadn’t said where they were going. He assumed it was North City, but he couldn’t be sure.

Several hours into their voyage, the General spoke. “I hope you like the cold, Captain.”

“Sorry, Sir?” He had been staring out the window, absently.

“It’s very cold where we’re going.” She looked at him, and he realized she looked exhausted. There were dark circles under her eyes, well, her left eye anyway. Under the veil of hair covering the right side of her face he assumed there was another dark circle.

“Where would that be, Sir?”

“Fort Briggs.” She grinned again, that wild wolfish smile, but this time it didn’t quite reach her eyes.

They passed another few hours in silence, and Miles realized moments before his stomach rumbled, loudly, that he was starving. The general pulled her gaze away from the passing landscape, to smirk at him. “Hungry, Miles?”

“Yes, Sir.” He replied, stiffly.

“I have something in my pack,” She told him reaching above the seat into her bag. “It’s not much, but-aah.” She stifled a noise of pain and clutched her side.

Miles leapt to his feet. “Sir? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” She snapped, grabbing at her pack again. “Here.” She thrust a leather wallet at him. “Go buy us lunch on the mess car.”

They didn’t speak again until the train pulled into the North City Station. It was growing dark, and a definitive chill had settled in. Disembarking, Miles shivered, it was freezing and it was only August. “Get used to it, Captain.” The general didn’t seem fazed by the cold at all. “Look for our car.” She instructed, “A Sgt. Karley is meant to be picking us up.” A sudden gust of icy wind blew her hair away from her face, and as she swatted it back into place irritably Miles caught a glimpse of a dark blue and purple bruise on the side of her face. The arrival of their ride provided a welcome distraction and they carried on without Armstrong realizing he had seen it.

-

Fort Briggs was the coldest place Miles had ever been in. Even in the new coat the army had supplied him, Miles felt like he was in a freezer. Following the retiring General Handler through the icy halls, he realized he was in over his head. General Armstrong, he noted, seemed perfectly at ease taking in the fort with practiced eyes.

“This is your new office,” Handler was saying when Miles focused again, “I’m sorry I haven’t finished clearing it out, yet, we’ve been quite busy.”

“Not at all,” Armstrong surveyed the room, “I like to see how my predecessor conducts business. You’ll be out by tomorrow?” It wasn’t really a question, though, and Handler looked annoyed.

“Of course.”

“Excellent.”

There was an awkward pause, and then Handler spoke again. “I’ll have someone show you to your quarters now. You must be tired after such a long journey.”

Miles expected her to protest, but she acquiesced readily. “Certainly.” She rounded on Miles. “I’ll expect you at my door at 0500 tomorrow. You know how I feel about tardiness.”

“Yes, Sir.”

At 0445, Miles stationed himself outside the General’s door. It was early, and he was tired, but he was not eager to feel her blade again.

“Good morning, Sir.” Sgt Karley appeared beside him with a salute. “Good morning,” Miles returned, stifling a yawn. 

“I have been instructed to show you and General Armstrong down to the mess, Sir.”

“We were shown there last night.” Miles remembered. “It’s two floors down, one hall over, three doors on the left, yes?”

“Yes, Sir.” Karley gaped. “If I may say, Sir, you have an excellent memory. Most new soldiers take weeks to learn their way entirely.” Miles shrugged, uncomfortably.

The door before him flew open and both men snapped to attention, saluting an angry General Armstrong. “If you two loudmouths are finished yakking, there’s work to be done.” She snapped, saluting them swiftly.

“Yes, Ma’am.” At Karley’s response, Miles cringed internally, waiting for the whoosh of her blade.

“Miles, inform our Sergeant here what happens to people who use that term. I’ll hold you personally responsible if it happens again.” Armstrong took off down the hall, and Miles hastened to fall into step, glaring at the shocked looking sergeant.

After a hastily consumed breakfast, they made their way up onto the roof where anyone who could be spared was assembled. Standing behind Armstrong Miles surveyed the rows of men waiting at attention. There were hundreds, standing, staring, completely silent. It was unnerving to be on this end, he realized.

General Handler droned on for what felt hours, reciting a lengthy speech about his time at Briggs, filled with political drabble. Miles felt himself losing focus, and snapping back to attention when Armstrong took her place at the podium.

“This fort,” she began without preamble, “is all that stands between Drachma and the total destruction of Amestris. I am prepared to do whatever it takes to see that it remains standing. I will not tolerate laziness, division, or carelessness. Every life, every soldier, here has one goal; protect this fort. If you cannot or will not devote yourself singlemindedly to that cause, then-” she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a deadly hiss. “Get out of my fort.” She let the words hang in the icy air a moment. “Back to work, all of you! Dismissed!”


	2. Mistakes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just setting the stage...

The next few days ran together in one extended tour of Briggs. Armstrong was, far and away, the most hands-on general Miles had ever met. She hefted crates in the armory, checking through the inventory with the men. She joined multiple groups for training exercises, worked a shift in engineering and even spent a whole night on rooftop scout duty. Coming in from a day out with the Briggs Mountain Patrol Miles was long past ready for sleep.

“Before you retire, Captain, fetch me a blank schedule.” General Armstrong instructed, as they hung up their gear in the Patrol Room. “I’ll be in my office.” 

Grumbling to himself, Miles made the journey across the fort. Armstrong had not moved into the official general’s quarters adjacent to her office, choosing instead to stay in a basic barrack like everyone else. She had stripped the office of it’s garish decor and transformed what ought to have been her quarters into a strategy room. All told, the errand would delay his exhausted tumble into bed by about twenty minutes. 

Ten minutes later he knocked on the door to the office and received no reply. Assuming she had changed her mind and retired to bed, he let himself in. He tossed the schedule on the desk and turned to go. Through the doorway he saw her leaning on the strategy room’s long table with her back to him. He froze. Armstrong had pulled her shirt up several inches and was sloppily bandaging a gash in her right side, struggling one-handedly.

“Sir?”

She stiffened, but didn’t turn. “Yes, Miles?”

“Are you alright, Sir? Should I fetch the doctor?”

“I’m fine.” She replied, tersely. “You are absolutely not to mention this to anyone, especially the doctor. I hardly need the whole fort worked up over an old injury.”

“That doesn’t look old, Sir.”

“Well, it is!” She snapped, turning to glare at him. “It reopened today is all. Now leave me in peace.”

Miles took a deep breath. “Sir, if I may, you really should go see the doctor. You’re bleeding through your bandages.” She swore quietly, and began dabbing roughly at the wound. Miles cringed.

“Don’t contradict me, Miles.” Armstrong snarled.

“Sir, please, at least let me help you.” Miles tensed, waiting for her to shout. All he really wanted to do was go to bed, but she was going to kill herself if she didn’t take better care of what appeared to be a very nasty wound.

Armstrong glared at him a long moment, before wordlessly extending the roll of cloth bandages. Miles took them and knelt beside her, examining the wound. Up close, he could see it was fairly narrow but surrounded by fading bruises. The bruises seemed to extend in all directions and from the little he could see, likely covered most of her torso. Dabbing on a little disinfectant, he dared to ask “what happened, Sir?” 

She snorted, “I told you, my last adjutant was a backstabber.”

“With res-” The words died on his lips as she tensed her hand by her left side where her sword normally hung. He tried again, “If I may be frank, Sir, you look like you came out worse in a fight.”

She laughed, wryly. “Who made you the expert?”

Miles bit his lip, “I am the oldest of seven very clumsy, very tightly-wound siblings. Fights are par for the course, as are minor wounds.” He pressed gauze against the gash, and began wrapping the wound. He started to reach around her and froze. There was, he realized too late, no non-awkward way to wrap the bandages around her waist. “Sir, would you-?” He proffered the end of the bandage, and she, thankfully, took it. Together, they began the awkward work of winding it around.

“You didn’t have any military medical training.” Armstrong noted.

“No, Sir.” Miles cut the end of the bandage and began taping it in place. “As I said, I was the oldest of seven. I spent a lot of time patching my younger siblings up.” Then, in a moment of idiocy brought on by his exhausted state, he rose and patted her on the back. “All done.”

She stared at him, wide eyed. It was hard to say who was more shocked.

“S-sorry, Sir.” He choked, knowing he was turning scarlet. “I-my siblings, I- Sorry.” He managed.

“I’ll let it slide,” she had recovered and was glaring at him “this time. Now, get out of my sight, Captain. And remember, if I hear even a whisper of a rumor about this-” she tapped her sword gently. Miles nodded, saluted hastily, and exited the room as quickly as he could without sprinting. 

Miles spent the next several days paying dearly for his mistake. Icicle scraping, while necessary, was a horrible job. By the time Armstrong had forgiven him, or forgotten about it, Miles wasn’t sure which, he was certain he was frozen solid. He never wanted to see another icicle again. 

\---

As time went on, Miles found himself being kept busier and busier. Reading the news and letters from home, it wasn’t hard to guess why. Everyday the tensions grew worse. Riots became a matter of course, and the military had set up “refugee camps”. These camps were heavily guarded and once Ishvalans went in, they became veritable prisoners. Armstrong was throwing task after task at him, obviously trying to funnel his rage. It worked, for a time.

During a surprisingly peaceful lull, Miles was sorting and filing paperwork while Armstrong worked.

“Oh, hold on.” He noticed an envelope that seemed rather out of place, and pulled it from the stack. “This one is for an ‘Olivier M-’”. He pulled the envelope free and saw the rest of the name. “Is your name Olivier?” He asked, surprised.

The general snorted. “You didn’t think my name was Brigadier General, did you?” She took the letter and tossed it in the trash bin.

“Of course not, Sir. I just didn’t realize.”

Armstrong opened an official letter from the Office of the Fuhrer idly. “You really-”. She stopped, her pale face losing all it’s color. “ _Miles._ ” Her voice sounded oddly strangled, and was full of an emotion Miles had never heard in it before--horror.

“Sir?”

“An Ishvalan child’s been shot. An Amestrian soldier. There’s been an official declaration, there’s a civil war on.” She was staring at him, but whether she was trying to communicate something, or understand his thoughts he did not know. Wordlessly, he turned and stormed from the room.

He didn’t know where he was going, rage blinded him and he went wherever his feet took him. Behind the snow-blindness goggles he had taken to wearing at all times, he was seeing red. He felt the tension building in his chest, his muscles tensed and he longed to scream.

When he found himself in a recreational room he didn’t hesitate to push past soldiers who were casually working out. He stopped in front of the first available punching bag and went after it, ferociously pounding away. He knew his fellow soldiers were staring, and low whispering filled the room, though he could barely hear it over his blood rushing in his ears.

“Captain Miles.”

Miles swung toward the speaker, fists raised. She didn’t flinch, and the moment his hand connected he realized it was his superior officer. Horror flooded him and the tension drained from his limbs; he dropped his hands uncertainly. There was a long moment where they stared at one another, Miles struggling to catch his breath. The rest of the room had fallen silent. Miles was keenly aware of all the eyes on him.

“Is that all you have?” Armstrong’s voice was cold and deadly. “Come at me, then.” She raised her arms and beckoned. Miles didn’t move. “That’s an order, soldier.” Confused, and even a little frightened, Miles swung again. She was fast; faster than he could have imagined. One second she was in front of him, the next beside him, a sparring sword in her hand.

_Crack._ She landed a solid blow on his shoulder. Miles backed up and grabbed a sword from the rack. He had taken basic sword skills at the Academy, but he knew he was no match for her.

_Crack._ Her sword bounced off his forearm. He swung a little too wide, and she ducked under his guard thrusting her sword’s point into his sternum. He withdrew and tried again, she dodged easily.

_Crack._ The flat of her sword caught him square in the head, and he stumbled. Losing his balance, he fell to the floor. He saw a flicker of blue and gold as she pounced and he threw his arms up defensively. Her sword came down hard, on the exact spot on his chest she had struck moments before. He felt her boot on his neck, and lowered his arms. She was not applying pressure to his neck, she did not need to; the fight had left him.

“Don’t you _ever_ leave without being dismissed, Captain.” There was a fire in her blue eyes as they bore down on him. “I ought to have you court martialed for that little stunt.” She indicated her cheek where he had struck her. “Now, get your sorry rear to your barracks and wait for my summons.” She withdrew her sword, and marched out, pausing at the door. “The rest of you, you _never_ saw this.” The door slammed and she was gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thanks for reading! I'd love to hear thoughts.


	3. Harder Still

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not have a little too much fun making my favorite characters suffer/deal with awkward situations.

Miles spent the next several days confined to his barracks. Food was delivered to him twice a day, but that was the extent to which his existence was acknowledged. He read through every book he owned, twice. He wrote a half-dozen letters home and gave them to the sergeant brought him his meals to mail. When he was quite certain he would lose his mind, though, there was a knock on his door and a Lieutenant whose name he didn’t know informed him General Armstrong had sent for him. 

“Are you ready to return to your post, Captain?” The General asked him unnervingly calmly, when he reported to her.

“Yes, Sir.” Miles knew he was being given a chance he did not deserve, considering what he had done. 

“Good. I have a significant shortage of competent soldiers.” And, that was that. Neither soldier mentioned the incident again, and even the witnesses remained silent as they had been ordered. The war in Ishval raged on, but in the North things remained much the same. Nevertheless, Miles wondered why she had not heeded orders to send her Ishvalan subordinate to an internment camp.

\---

_“Shut up and follow me, Miles.”_ Though it had been months since he confronted her on the rooftop, Olivier Armstrong’s words were still fresh in his mind when Miles received the news that the last Ishvalan warrior had been killed. Time and circumstances had hardened his resolve even more and he had fast developed a reputation for his calm and silent demeanor. He wore his snow goggles at all times, and never let his guard down. Though the soldiers who had been at Briggs for some time were not openly hostile towards him, they were not quick to intervene when newer, hotheaded, recruits attacked. The war in Ishval was over, but the recruits being funneled off the battlefields into Briggs could not see an Ishvalan without labeling him the enemy. 

“How’s Ishvalan scum like you figure you deserve to wear this uniform?” A captain fresh from the Eastern front cornered him in the lockers, swinging the jacket Miles had been on the verge of putting on, casually.

Miles spared the man no response, grabbing his jacket back and pulling it on, swiftly.

“Hey, I’m talking to you.” He gripped Miles’ arm as he tried to brush past him. Miles yanked his arm free, and the other captain swung at him. Sparring routinely with Olivier (as he had, perhaps foolishly, taken to thinking of her) had aided his reflexes and he quickly shut down his attacker.

Hardly a week went by, however, before a new set of recruits piled in and he had to start over, and then over again. The litany of insults he endured were hardly creative, but they wore on him nonetheless.

“Desert scum!”

“Red-eyed freak!”

“Ew, Ishvalan stench!”

The physical attacks that accompanied the insults left him bruised and aching. He began to fear sleeping, when he knew his guard would be down. He grew more and more tired, and it began to show. Olivier, oblivious to his predicament, quickly grew frustrated with his obvious dragging.

“Focus, Captain!”

“Get it together before I run you through!”

“Do you need to scrape some icicles to regain your motivation, Miles?”

He bore each insult and correction with a either stiff “Yes, Sir” or “No, Sir,” and a not-quite sincere “Sorry, Sir.”

-

“If I have to screen one more shipment of lousy, good for nothing, newbies fresh from the Academy, then-” Miles tuned out Olivier’s diatribe, since he was finally not the target. He had heard it all before, anyway. She was an excellent judge of character, and incredible at training new recruits, but she was growing weary of the constant change in the Fort. And, though she refused to admit it, Miles had overheard more than enough locker room banter to know that in spite of her terrifying demeanor, she was struggling to gain and hold the respect of the men who saw her pretty face and attractive figure as the reason for her rank, rather than her skill.

“Have you been sleeping, Miles?”

“Sorry, Sir, what?” Miles realized he had been staring blankly at the report he was meant to be reading.

“Have you been sleeping?” Olivier repeated, coolly.

“Yes, Sir.”

“Don’t lie to me, Miles.”

“Sorry, Sir.” He rubbed the back of his neck, and sighed. “Not as well as I would like, Sir.”

“Why is that, Captain?” Olivier was studying him, and he knew he could not lie again.

“It’s nothing, Sir.” He hoped that would appease her. It didn’t.

“I need your mind sharp, Miles. Why haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Some of the new recruits,” he admitted, “don’t especially care to be commanded by an Ishvalan.” He did not elaborate further.

“Is that so?” Olivier leaned back in her seat, tapping her pen on her desk, thoughtfully. She said nothing more, however, and Miles tiredly returned to work. If he had been more awake, he might have seen how carefully his commander was poring over the personnel files on her desk. He might have even noticed, the way her eyes gleamed when the pieces of her new plan began to come together. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, he was exhausted and didn’t notice anything.

Miles was sleeping fitfully that night when his barrack door opened quietly. Waking at once, he gripped the knife he kept under his pillow and tensed, ready to spring into action. Footsteps moved towards him, and he was startled by their familiar cadence. They stopped and his mattress creaked as none other than Olivier Armstrong perched on the end of his bed.

Miles shifted slightly, on the verge of inquiring, when he was cut off.

“Hush, Miles.” Olivier’s voice was surprisingly soft. There was a creaking and then he heard the tap of her sheathed sword’s point coming to rest on the floor. “Sleep now, Captain, you’re safe.”

Though he was still nervous, Miles complied, drifting into the most restful night of sleep he had had in weeks. When he awoke the next morning, she was gone. The next several nights proceeded in a similar fashion and Miles began to fear someone would notice. Olivier had begun, subtly but perceptibly, to drag, wearied by her nightly vigil. He knew that if anyone connected the dots no one would believe that she had done nothing more than sit and keep watch. He knew, too, that it was backwards--the general keeping watch over her adjutant when he was meant to be watching her back. He couldn’t bring himself to confront her in the daylight, though, he was finally sleeping and there was something oddly comforting about her silent presence.

The fifth night, however, something changed drastically. Olivier was still there when he awoke. She had shifted in the night, no longer seated at the end of the bed, but sprawled beside him. She was snoring lightly, her shoulders pressed into his with such force that his face was smashed against the concrete wall. One of her booted feet had found the back of his knee, and it, too, was painfully acquainted with the wall. Wincing, he pushed back against her gaining a little room to breathe. She started awake, bolting upright into a sitting position. Knowing she would be embarrassed, Miles feigned sleep. He heard her give a sigh of relief before hastily exiting the room.


	4. Friendship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit lighter, because poor Miles needs a break.

The day went on as though nothing had happened, but Miles knew something would have to change. What he didn’t know was how drastic that change would be. At midday, though, he would figure it out. He took advantage of his long lunch break to swing back by his barrack and grab a book his sister had sent him. He flung the door open and was confused when it bounced off someone and came back to him.

“Hey!” The someone protested, loudly. “Watch it!”

Miles blinked behind his goggles, “Sorry, I think I must be in the wrong room, I-” He stopped; there was his book right where he’d left it. This _was_ his room.

“Sorry, Sir!” The man saluted suddenly, obviously noticing his rank.

“That’s alright,” Miles returned the salute still baffled. “Why are you in my room?”

“This is your room?” The man asked, brightly. “Cool! We’re roommates! I’m 2nd Lt Buccaneer.”

“Ah.” Miles entered the room, still uncertain.

“This is usually the part where you tell me your name. Sir.” Buccaneer was watching him as though he thought he might be a little slow.

“Right. Captain Miles.” Miles picked up his book and turned to Buccaneer. “Sorry, _roommates?_ ”

“That’s right, Sir.” Buccaneer pulled a piece of paper from his coat pocket. “I’ve got my barrack assignment right here.”

Miles took it and glanced at it. Buccaneer was right, he had been assigned to share Miles’ room. Olivier had authorized it herself. Shaking his head, he handed the paper back to the Lieutenant who probably thought he was an idiot. He hadn’t had a roommate since coming to Briggs and had assumed it was a perk of being Olivier’s adjutant. Making a mental note to ask her about it, Miles surveyed his new roommate. Buccaneer was a giant of a man, and his eyes had that same maniacal gleam that often lit Olivier’s face. What caught Miles’ attention, though, besides his mohawk, was the man’s automail arm. It had been retro-fitted and upgraded to the point of resembling a multi-tool rather than an arm.

“So.” Buccaneer broke the awkward silence, still looking at Miles as though he were touched in the head. “Whatcha reading?”

“Oh, this?” Miles glanced at the book, wrapped in brown paper, he was clutching to his chest like a shield. “It’s a classic, about-” He stopped, he couldn’t well admit it was an Ishvalan classic. “Uh, it’s, well, there’s this-” (and people wondered why he didn’t talk much?) “-family. They have some unusual adventures.”

Buccaneer was staring. “Right.” He said slowly, doing nothing to hide the fact he was wondering what was wrong with Miles. “What do you do here?”

Miles was starting to overcome the shock and bristled a bit. “I’m General Armstrong’s personal adjutant.” He put the book back on his foot locker.

“Really? That’s impressive.” Buccaneer nodded to himself. “Well, I have to report for my new orders. Do you know where the Patrol Headquarters are?”

Relieved, Miles gave him directions and sank down onto his bunk as soon as he was gone. That had been quite possibly the most humiliating first meeting he had ever had. He was grateful when it was time to go back to work, and he could try to forget about it. 

\---

Buccaneer, it turned out, snored like a chainsaw. Gritting his teeth that night, Miles pulled his pillow over his head. How could one person possibly make so much noise? Realizing he wouldn’t be able to sleep, anyway, he crawled out from under his pillow and switched on his lamp. He grabbed the book he had abandoned early and quickly became engrossed. He probably should have noticed Buccaneer waking and sitting up, but he remained oblivious until the mohawked man switched on his lamp.

Startled, Miles looked across the room. Buccaneer looked back at him. Red met blue. Miles barely had time to register Buccaneer’s expression as, with one hand, he grabbed somewhat wildly for his snow goggles, and with the other clutched his knife.

“It’s true, then.”

Defiantly, Miles looked up from his searching to meet Buccaneer’s eyes again. “Yes.” He forced his voice to remain steady. “I am a quarter Ishvalan.”

“Only a quarter?” Buccaneer sounded surprised. “You look more than that.”

“My grandfather’s blood is strong in my veins.”

There was a long pause, and then “You going to stab me?” Buccaneer indicated the knife in his hand.

“Only if necessary.” Miles replied, coolly.

“In that case, I’m going back to bed.” Buccaneer switched his light off and laid back down. “Goodnight, Sir.”

More baffled than ever Miles returned his knife to its place under his pillow and, switching off his own lamp, followed Buccaneer’s lead. He slept better than he had anticipated, but still longed to find a way to silence his roommate’s snores. 

-

The next day Olivier seemed to know what had happened. “What do you think of your new roommate, Miles?” She asked him, a subtle smirk playing about the corners of her lips.

“He snores.” Miles told her, irritated.

She snickered. “Did you ask him about his arm?”

Miles shook his head, “I think that’s rude, Sir.”

“Maybe. Do it anyway.” She shrugged, the smirk still on her face. “You’re crabby today.”

“Yes, Sir.” Miles scowled at his paperwork.

“Do you know why you’re not a Major?” The change in conversation was so abrupt Miles needed a moment to register what she was asking.

“I’m told my winning personality has something to do with, Sir.” He told her drily.

She snorted.

“You were at my last review board, Sir.” He reminded her. “I think you know the answer.”

“I do.” She had put down her pen and was studying him. “Do you know what changed during the Eastern Rebellion?”

“No, Sir.” He admitted.

“There was a change of policy due to the rate of promotions. A single general can decide to promote from Captain to Major. You still need a full review to go higher, though.”

Miles, too, put down his pen. Did she mean what he thought she meant?

“I’ve been waiting for political tensions to die down.” From her tone, she might well have been discussing the weather, but Miles’ heart was pounding surprisingly loudly. “I think the time is finally right, but I cannot guarantee there will be no backlash.” She paused as though waiting for a response, continuing only when she was sure he would not speak. “It’s your decision, Miles. If you want it, the promotion is yours.”

“I do, Sir.” Miles was surprised by how much he wanted the promotion, unsure why it meant so much.

“Excellent. I expected nothing less.” She awarded him one of her rare, genuine, smiles. “High Command tried to dissuade me from taking you on as adjutant. Time to show them they don’t scare me.” Her face lit with a maniacal grin, eyes practically glowing. “We’ll have the ceremony tomorrow.”

\---

Miles found himself, once again, face to face with a new soldier who didn’t appreciate his heritage. He wondered, vaguely, if he should avoid the locker room altogether. Probably not, he didn’t need to give his beloved-wait, _what?_ -commander any reason to complain about his appearance, or worse, smell.

“What’s wrong, freak? Scared?” The soldier demanded as Miles made to duck around him.

Miles glanced at the soldier, a sergeant, by the look of his stripes, and snorted. “Not hardly. I’m not in the mood.”

The sergeant responded by grabbing hold of his ponytail and yanking. Miles drove an elbow into the man’s ribcage and jerked free. Two of his friends joined in with angry shouts, and it devolved into an out and out fight.

“Hey, hey! Break it up!” Buccaneer reached in and pulled them all apart, with impressive ease. He frowned. “Miles?” Miles shoved his goggles, which had come loose during the fight, back onto his face and glared. A look of dawning recognition flickered across the large man’s face, and he turned on the sergeants instantly. “You dare attack a superior officer?!” He roared, looking for all the world like a feral bear. “You’ll be on icicle duty till your fingers fall off, you mangy mutts! Now get out of here! Go! _Now!_ ”

“I can take care of myself.” Miles turned to the Lieutenant as soon as the sergeants scarpered.

“I don’t doubt it.” Buccaneer snorted. “But you shouldn’t have to.” 

\---

Olivier was as good as her word. At 1000, precisely, the next day she called a rooftop assembly and Miles became the first soldier to receive a promotion under her command at Briggs. He was surprised by how many soldiers seemed genuinely enthusiastic in their applause. Buccaneer and Karley even whooped. Karley stopped at Olivier’s stern glare, but Buccaneer continued defiantly. Miles had a feeling Olivier would see to it that he would regret his defiance.

He felt on top of the world, though. He had finally, _finally,_ received his promotion, flying in the face of the racism that pervaded the Amestrian military. Through the strange way of masculine friendships, it seemed their brief conversations had solidified a friendship between himself and Buccaneer. And though he would never admit it, Olivier’s smile meant the world to him.


	5. Blackburn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't have difficulty with keeping my chapters consistent lengths. Why would you say that? 
> 
> Okay...Maybe I do. My bad.

Such a joyous high, of course, could not last. A mere week later Miles and Buccaneer were summoned to Olivier’s office during what should have been their lunch break. When they arrived Olivier was pacing behind her desk, a letter clutched tightly in her gloved hand.

“I miscalculated.” She informed them, shaking the letter in their direction.

Miles and Buccaneer exchanged confused glances. “Sorry, Sir, what?” Miles asked after a moment.

“Do you remember what I said about political tension and potential backlash?” She asked him, putting the letter on her desk and somewhat fruitlessly attempting to smooth it.

“Yes, Sir.” He frowned. “Is that from Central, Sir?”

She nodded. “Lt. General Blackburn is coming here to review my post.”

“Er, I’m sorry, Sir.” Miles still wasn’t sure what was going on. He glanced at Buccaneer who shrugged.

“Tch.” Olivier glared at them both. “You don’t know what this means, do you?”

“No, Sir.” They admitted simultaneously.

“There are those in High Command, like Blackburn, who are especially...ruthless. He was among those who attempted to convince me not to take you on to begin with.”

Miles felt dense, but the pieces were not coming together the way she obviously wanted them to.

Olivier gritted her teeth. “Men like Blackburn rely on brute force rather than reason to make their point.”

Suddenly the memories of Olivier’s tired eyes the day they first met, of her stiffness on the train, flooded his brain. And those hideous bruises, horror filled him, _those bruises_. He gasped audibly, and Buccaneer stared at him.

Olivier gave him a cold smirk. “That’s right, Major.”

“Sirs, what is going on?” Buccaneer interjected, obviously tired of being the only one in the dark.

Olivier looked at him pointedly, but Miles couldn’t speak. He knew the upper levels of the Amestrian military hid some dark secrets, but he found this one particularly cruel. His stomach churned. “Back in Central, you-” he stammered, “they? You?” He knew he was being incoherent and both Olivier and Buccaneer were regarding him like an idiot.

“Yes, Miles.” Olivier saved him from having to voice his thoughts. “I took a beating for you.”

Buccaneer growled, actually _growled_. “What?! How could they?”

“Simple. I let them.” Olivier tapped the crumpled letter on her desk. “But this is what matters now. We need to act quickly.”

“You let them?!” Buccaneer was a dog with a bone. Miles was still struggling to grasp the situation.

“Yes.” Olivier sighed. “Focus, Lieutenant. I have a job for you. Do it well, and you can have a promotion, too.”

Buccaneer looked like he wanted to argue, but didn’t. “What’s that, Sir?”

“I’m temporarily making you my secondary adjutant.” Both Buccaneer and Miles stared at her. “You’ll report directly to Miles, and, this is very important, while Blackburn is here _don’t leave his side_.”

“I can look after myself, Sir.” Miles protested, flushing with humiliation at the thought of having Buccaneer as his glorified babysitter.

“They’ll be out for blood, Major.” Olivier was glaring at him.

“I understand that, Sir, but-”

“Shut up!” Olivier snarled. “Just follow your orders! And maybe, just maybe, we’ll all make it out of this alive.”

There was a long moment and Miles saluted stiffly. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good. You’re dismissed, both of you. I have work to do.” Saluting once more, Miles left the room, Buccaneer on his heels.

Once out in the hall he and Buccaneer seemed to have the same thought. “What now, Sir?”

“I have no idea, Lieutenant.”

\---

Having Buccaneer as a bodyguard was a bit like having a shadow. A loud, insane, two hundred and fifty-plus pound bear of a shadow who never stopped talking. It took only two hours for Miles to want to throw one of his books at him. A mere four before he attempted it. For such a large man, Buccaneer was surprisingly agile.

“Careful, Sir.” Buccaneer grinned, catching the book with ease. “Wouldn’t want to damage this, would you?”

Miles scowled at him and returned to trying to finish his paperwork. Olivier was, at that very moment, leading Blackburn and his “crew of thugs” (her term for the group of officers he had brought with him) on a tour of Briggs. Not only was that technically his job, he hated the thought of her alone with the man (or men? She had not been forthcoming with details.) who had beaten her so brutally the year before. He knew she was more than capable of protecting herself, but it didn’t mean he liked it.

“Hey, look at this.” Buccaneer suddenly thrust his hand into his coat and pulled out a glossy magazine. “Newest edition of _Everyday Automail_ , not as good as _Automail Quarterly_ , but still.”

“Er. That’s nice.”

“Yeah, they’re doing this custom-design competition, I’d love to get my hands on this one-” he pointed at a hand with knives for fingers, “but make the knives retractable, you know? I’d call it the Carlisle.”

“The Carlisle?”

“That’s me.” Buccaneer drew himself up proudly. “Carlisle Orson Buccaneer.”

“Oh.”

“What’s your name, Sir?”

“Just Miles, Lieutenant. Sir to you.”

Buccaneer regarded him with a bemused frown for a minute, then nodded sagely. “I read, one time, that Ishvalan first names are sacred. Is that right?”

Miles leaned back in his chair, with a sigh. “Something like that.”

_He was a child again, crouched behind the woodpile and trying to control his tears. Big boys didn’t cry. He swiped frantically at his face when his mother’s concerned face appeared._

_“I wasn’t crying!” He blurted._

_“Hmm.” Mother lowered herself to the ground with a huff. Baby Miles number three was almost due and making her movements slow and tiring. “What’s wrong?”_

_“The big kids are making fun of me!”_

_“Why’s that, love?”_

_“It’s my stupid name! It’s girly and I hate it!”_

_“Your name isn’t girly. You were named for Granddad, remember?”_

_“Granddad hates me!”_

_“That’s not true! Why would you say that?”_

_He closed his eyes and shook his head. Not for the first time, he wished he, like his twin, had more of his mother’s traits. Not her slight build, which he unfortunately already possessed, but her pale skin, curly dark hair, and most of all her deep brown eyes._

_“You know, dear,” Mother sighed, at last, “that Granddad is Aerugan, just like Grandfather is Ishvalan. Sometimes, they have different ideas, is all. But, if you want, you could use your last name, instead of your first, like Grandfather and the other Ishvalans do.”_

_“Really?” His head shot up. “I can make everyone call me Miles?”_

_“Yes, you could.” Only years later would he understand why she looked so sad. “Now come on, let’s go in.” She struggled for a minute before shaking her head. “On second thought, dear, go ask Father to come help me up.”_

_He ran off, without a second thought. How excited he was! Many years later, he would wonder if he should have stuck with his Aerugean name and Amestrian traditions._

“Yeah,” he muttered to Buccaneer who was engrossed in his magazine. “Something like that.” He shook his head and tried to focus on his paperwork again. “And, for Ishvala’s sake, put that magazine away before the General gets here.

“Yes, Sir.” Buccaneer tucked the magazine back into his coat and opened a folder. “What do you think they’re doing now?” He asked, a few minutes later, doodling an automail claw on the paperwork he was meant to be filling out.

“I don’t know.” Miles sighed, irritated. “You can go see if you’re that curious.”

“Nah.” Buccaneer was adding spikes to his sketch. “I get a promotion just for putting up with you until Blackburn leaves.”

“If you don’t stop talking, you won’t live long enough to get that promotion.” Miles threatened, darkly.

Buccaneer just laughed. “Sorry, Sir. If you could take me, I wouldn’t need to be here.”

Miles pounded his head on his desk.

Olivier’s voice just outside the door halted any further discussion. Miles hastened to adjust his goggles, while Buccaneer shuffled his papers to hide the doodles. “This is my office,” she was saying “we can go over that paperwork in here.”

Miles and Buccaneer leapt up to salute as the door opened. Olivier entered, followed by four men: a general, a captain, and two lieutenants.

“As you were.” General Blackburn spoke, surveying them both with cold eyes. His eyes settled on Miles who diligently returned to his work. His goal was to be busy enough to seem useful, but not so busy he called undue attention to himself.

With the addition of a desk for Buccaneer the office had become rather cramped and there was a minute of shuffling as all the men attempted to situate themselves. Olivier, ever confident, marched to her desk without regard for their plight.

“I have personnel records, here.” She handed an overflowing box to one of the men. “And these,” she hefted an equally full box into a nearby Lieutenants arms, “are the reports from engineering. Here,” she grabbed yet another box, “these are the budget worksheets you requested.” She dumped them somewhat unceremoniously into the arms of the last thug, the captain. “For you, Sir.” She reached behind her desk and hauled out a massive box of papers. “All of our observations on the recent activities of the Drachman military.” She pushed the box into Blackburn’s arms. “Did you need anything else?”

“No. Ooph.” He staggered under the weight. “These seem very...thorough.”

They were, in fact, painfully thorough. Without any real activity to report most days, the scouts, a highly competitive consortium, would write page after page detailing shifts in the winds, temperature fluctuations, etc, all trying to outdo each other in sheer redundancy. Miles had expected this to enrage the General, but she quickly put the findings to use in tracking and predicting the deadly mountain storms.

“We pride ourselves on our observations, Sir.” Her contempt was ill-disguised behind her overly-innocent routine.

“Indeed.” Blackburn tossed the box into the arms of the Lieutenant, who staggered and dropped both boxes, sending paperwork everywhere. “Let’s not keep up this pretense. We both know why I’m really here.”

“Yes, Sir.” Olivier was glaring, no longer bothering to hide her rage.

“You seem to have forgotten our little talk.” Blackburn took a step toward her, towering over the petite woman.

“I didn’t forget.” She spoke through gritted teeth. “I chose to ignore it, there’s a difference.” Behind the Lieutenant General’s back Miles and Buccaneer exchanged subtle glances. Olivier’s hand, though balled at her side, remained off her sword hilt and they remained at their desks.

Around them, the officers from Central were juggling their boxes of paperwork, trying to position themselves more strategically.

“That was a foolish decision.”

Olivier sneered. “And what are you going to do about it, _Sir_?” She emphasized sir a little too hard.

“Well, let’s see.” Blackburn opened his briefcase and pulled out a folder. “What should I do about your decision to promote Major Miles?" He began flipping through it. "Does this look right to you, Soldier?" He dropped the folder onto Miles' desk. Looking at it, Miles realized immediately that someone had altered it; he was listed as having a half-Ishvalan grandfather, a lie that might explain why he had never been forcibly removed from Briggs.

"Yes, Sir." He lied, glancing at Olivier who was regarding the proceedings irritably.

"Really?" Blackburn smirked. "I was hoping your name _wasn't_ Florence."

"It's not, Sir." Miles bit the inside of his cheek to temper his angry response. "It's Florentino, Sir." (Not that that was any better, as far as he was concerned.) He resisted the urge to add "like it says in my file".

The officers from Central all snickered, and even Buccaneer had to cover his amusement with a feigned coughing fit. To his credit, he covered his mouth with an automail fist, and tried to look abashed. Olivier merely looked bored, though an angry vein was still throbbing in her forehead.

Blackburn opened his mouth, but whatever came out was drowned out by a mighty rumbling. The whole fort seemed to buckle and shake. The officers still holding their boxes dropped them as the whole room reeled. Then the klaxon sounded. This was no drill; they were under attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading! Please let me know what you think! 
> 
> I'm not super enthused by giving first names to characters that don't have them, but it was kind of relevant for character development, so: 
> 
> I specifically picked Carlisle which means "strong" and Orson which means "bear" for Buccaneer, for obvious reasons.
> 
> I originally wrote Miles' hatred for his name as a running gag, but once I thought of naming him Florentino it kind of stuck. 
> 
> Also, the flashback is a bit experimental, so I'd love to hear thoughts on that. Good? Bad? Please, for the love of all things good and beautiful, never do that again?


	6. Respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone told me longer is better, so I hope this chapter is a good length!

Olivier shoved past Blackburn, leaped over the mess of papers, and knocked over a lieutenant who was struggling to right himself. Miles and Buccaneer followed her from the room at a run. Even after so many drills Miles felt oddly unprepared for a real attack. He could hear the soldiers from Central shouting after them, but they were ignored. Through the winding tunnels of Briggs, they ran, bounding up flights of stairs two or even three steps at a time. It seemed an age, but the clock running quietly in the back of his mind told him it was a mere forty-seven seconds before they burst onto the roof, weapons drawn.

It was pandemonium. Scouts were shouting, and the snipers were disjointed, missing more easy shots than they made. Far below them, small troops of Drachman soldiers were firing at the walls with old-style cannons. There was too much chaos and Miles searched the snow for some indicator of what was actually happening.

“There!” Miles followed Buccaneer’s line of sight out to the Northeast. A small group of well-camouflaged soldiers, weighed down by what appeared to be explosives, crept towards the mostly unprotected edge of the fort.

Olivier had seen it, too. “Give me that!” She snarled, pulling a sniper rifle from a stunned captain’s hands. She pulled it up to her shoulder, and began sighting a shot. She swore loudly and lowered the rifle. The angle was all wrong.

Miles cast around for a solution. “Here, Sir!” He bolted to a scout’s box. The tiny structure might be just enough to correct the angle. Olivier and Buccaneer followed, and without Miles needing to explain, or Olivier giving the order, Buccaneer crouched and made a step with his hands. Olivier took a flying leap, spring boarding off her subordinate’s outstretched arms. It was a terrifying thing to watch. Time seemed to slow as, lit by the exploding cannons and flashing warning lights the general soared through the air, inches from the edge of the roof and a several-hundred foot drop. She landed gracefully on the roof of the Scout’s box and Miles let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

“Your turn.” Buccaneer’s gruff voice preceded his even gruffer grab at the back of Miles’ collar. Miles clambered onto the roof with far less grace than his commander, falling flat on his face. Olivier was already sighting the new shot.

“Steady me, Major.” With no sandbags to support her rifle, Olivier had settled the gun on her knee instead. She was crouching as close to the edge as humanly possible.

Ignoring the waves of vertigo, Miles crawled to her side. She pressed her elbow into his shoulder and drew a deep breath. “Don’t move.” She exhaled slowly and her finger tensed on the trigger. Miles forced himself to remain still as the gun went off inches from his head. The kick unbalanced Olivier and she pushed hard into his shoulder, steadying herself.

She hit her target dead on. The resounding explosion confirmed their suspicions. The cannon fire had been nothing more than a distraction to allow these soldiers to plant explosives unnoticed. Pushing herself up off his shoulder, Olivier whirled on her snipers.

“Get it together, imbeciles! They’ll be out of ammunition soon!” Sure enough, the Drachman troops were retreating. Several soldiers whooped and hollered. “Shut it! Keep firing!” Olivier’s screamed order silenced the men immediately. With grim resolve they set to work gunning down the retreating soldiers.

All at once, silence fell. The last of the Drachmans were either out of range or dead. The snow below was red and black with blood and soot. In the distance the strike team was smoldering. Olivier was standing stock still surveying the wreckage before her. Her golden hair was blowing in the wind, and she seemed impossibly small against the backdrop of snow and sky.

“Major Miles.” She spoke suddenly, looking down at him.

“Yes, Sir?” It was impossible to seem dignified from his place sprawled below her, though he gave it his best effort.

“You can let go of me now.”

Miles followed her pointed gaze. Unintentionally, without even realizing, he had grabbed hold of her boot, a useless gesture likely intended to prevent her from falling. “Oh. Sorry, Sir.” He released her immediately.

She leapt over him, taking Buccaneer’s extended hand and swinging gracefully down onto the main roof in one swift motion.

Pushing himself upright, Miles looked down over the edge of the box to Buccaneer who chuckled. “Need a hand?” The chuckle should have been warning enough, but Miles was still surprised when Buccaneer grabbed his arm and flung him over his head in a classic wrestling move. He landed painfully on his rear.

“I hate you, Lieutenant.” He grumbled, scrambling to his feet, as Buccaneer guffawed. He followed Olivier towards the shocked General Blackburn, who had found his way onto the roof somehow.

“Are you satisfied, Sir?” Olivier was regarding Blackburn coolly.

Blackburn looked past her to Miles. “Human sandbag, hmm?” He chuckled, maliciously. “I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Miles kept a cool professionalism in his voice.

“Don’t thank me, Major. It’s the truth.” Blackburn turned to Olivier. “It seems, you are less foolish than you appear. However,” he leaned in close “next time I give you a warning, the consequences of disregarding it will be _severe_.” Without another word, he turned and made his way through the open door behind him.

There was a beat and then, “Should we tell him that’s the wrong way, Sir?” Sgt. Karley had appeared beside them.

“Do it and scrape icicles for life, Sergeant.”

“Yes, Sir!” Karley grinned.

-

Blackburn’s visit dragged on three more agonizing days. Try as he might, he couldn’t find any reason to have Olivier demoted or Miles quietly “lost in a snow storm”. Not that his “thugs” didn’t repeatedly try to corner Miles alone, but Buccaneer’s looming presence, never more than a dozen feet away, was as useful as it was irksome. Eventually he returned to Central, taking his officers, racist insults (aimed at Miles), and leering smirks (aimed at Olivier) with him.

Life at Briggs slowly returned to normal. Olivier was furious at the incompetence on the rooftop; She rampaged through the fort handing out demerits like candy at a parade. The troops responded with mild grumbling when she wasn’t around, but no longer bandied insults about her gender and good looks. Instead, they called her ruthless and fierce, voices tinged with admiration. It had been painfully long in the making, but the whole fort, finally, was wholly undivided in their consensus: she was a woman to be feared, respected, and above all, _obeyed_.

“Imbeciles!” She fumed, rearranging schedules to fit more training in. “If Central would just send us competent soldiers for once! What are they going to do when this lot gets us all killed?!”

“Weep, probably.” Miles told her, crossing out a shift that had the Delta group scheduled to be in two places at once.

She snorted. “You and I will be lucky to have military honors at our funerals. Let alone actual tears.” She noticed his revision and frowned. “Why don’t you want Delta on the roof?”

“Because they already have KP.” He pointed at the corresponding shift. “Remind me again, why _we_ are doing this instead of Lt. Henschiel?” He knew the answer, of course. Lt. Henschiel had irritated her by questioning the excessive amount of rooftop time she was assigning to soldiers who had gotten on her bad side. In retaliation she had banished him to the roof until he apologized, unfortunately for her (for Miles, really) this meant someone else (Miles) had to do the logistics officer’s job until then. She was consistently dissatisfied with the level of training and kept taking the schedules back to redo them, herself.

She gave him a glare in response. “Where’s Bravo, then?” She asked scanning the page. “Idiots. Getting themselves lost on a stupid schedule.”

It was Miles’ turn to snort. “It’s not like they scheduled themselves, Sir.”

She glared at him. “Are you mocking me, Major?”

For a moment he considered denying it, but decided to be bold. “I thought it was obvious, Sir.” He dodged the pen she threw at his head.

 _Rat-tat._ There was a swift knock on the door.

“Enter!” Olivier called, snapping her fingers at Miles who obligingly retrieved her pen.

“Sergeant Karley reporting as ordered, Sir!”

“At ease, Sergeant.” Olivier reached for the pen Miles was deliberately holding centimeters from her reach. “I’ve been reviewing your personnel file.” She frowned as her fingers closed on thin air. “Why didn’t you complete your officer training? You were extremely close.” She stretched for her pen and Miles, figuring he was already committed and might as well go all out, pulled it back a little further.

“I was deployed before I had the opportunity to finish, Sir.” The young sergeant was watching the back and forth over the pen with his brows furrowed.

“I realize that.” Olivier scowled, closing her fingers on air again. She shot Miles a dark look. “I am asking you why.”

“I made an inadvertent discovery about my commanding officer.” He admitted, giving Miles a look that suggested he thought he was a dead man.

“And he sent you here, to keep it quiet. Typical. I am sending you back to North City to complete your training on one condition- _Miles give me my pen!_ -you will return here as soon as you finish.”

“Are you serious, Sir?!” Karley’s face lit with hope. “Thank you!”

“Of course I’m serious, I never joke.” She turned to face Miles, glowering darkly. “Give me my pen, Major, or I _will_ throw you off the roof.”

Miles handed it over.

\---

“You know, Sir,” Buccaneer clapped him on the back, during lunch after his promotion ceremony, hard enough to make him stumble, and nearly drop his tray of food “I actually kind of miss being your bodyguard, it was fun.”

“Why? Because you could harass me endlessly?” Miles queried, without any real annoyance. He dumped his tray onto a nearby table and was unsurprised when the just-promoted first-lieutenant dropped down beside him.

“Something like that.” Buccaneer admitted, with a grin.

“I knew it.” Miles smirked.

“You’d be an idiot to not have noticed.”

“True.”

“Buccaneer!” A lieutenant Miles only vaguely recognized from Charlie Squad slammed his hands on the tabletop. “Oh, sorry, Sir, I didn’t see you there!” For being the second in-command of the entire fort Miles was far too often overlooked by his subordinates. He gave Miles a perfunctory salute, barely waiting for his dismissal before refocusing on Buccaneer. “So, sparring! Rumor has it you’re unbeatable.”

Buccaneer grinned. “Undefeated, as it happens.”

“Care to test your luck?”

Buccaneer’s grin widened. “What, here?”

Miles tensed, poised to grab his food and make a break for it. As a superior officer he should really try to break things up, but Buccaneer was testing a new automail design with _sharp_ edges, and he liked his hair the way it was.

“Nah.” The other lieutenant shook his head. “The training hall, tonight. 2300.”

“I look forward to it.”

As soon as the other officer was out of earshot Miles leaned over to hiss at Buccaneer. “What are you doing? That’s after the day shift curfew.” (The curfew was a decidedly unpopular measure taken by Olivier when she took over command. When the soldiers flouted the new rule she had taken a page from the Academy rulebook and set up each hall of barracks with it’s own commander and a system of credits and demerits per squad that affected leave time, phone calls, and assorted other privileges. It had not made her more popular, for sure, but fort-wide efficiency had shot up a whole 30%.)

“Eh. Where’s your sense of adventure? Besides, what's the hall commander going to do?” He snorted, disdain apparent. “Give me detention? We’re not school kids here.”

“It’s not the commander I’m worried about.” Miles shook his head. “On your head be it, if General Armstrong finds out.”

\---

That weekend Buccaneer headed into North City on leave with what felt like half the fort. He attempted to persuade Miles to join him in celebrating his promotion, but Miles was looking forward to the peace and quiet. Besides, even though all the training had had the desired effect of strengthening the bonds between the ragtag team of soldiers, he wasn’t sure he was comfortable partying with the group.

After a few hours of reading, however, Miles’ head started to hurt from the effort of reading in Ishvalan. His grandfather had been determined he would not disgrace his red eyed heritage and he had spent every summer in Ishval with his grandfather. Though technically fluent, he struggled to deal with now-dead language for more than a few hours at a time. He tucked the book back in between folded shirts in his foot locker. Though he no longer felt the need to wrap his Ishvalan books in suitable Amestrian covers, he concealed them out of habit.

Miles checked the time, and made his way out of his barrack. It was later than he normally liked to be up, but he technically had leave time. He was surprised to realize he actually missed the chaos of his insane roommate and his many duels with the others on their hall.

His feet carried him to Olivier’s office. He paused at the door and considered. Olivier would surely be in bed, and the office would be unoccupied. He could get ahead on his paperwork. After a moment he decided; it wasn’t as though he had anything better to do. Halfway in the door, he realized his assessment had been incorrect.

“Sorry, Sir!” He stopped and saluted. “I didn’t realize you were in here.”

She looked up for a moment, her expression almost puzzled, and Miles wondered if he had actually caught her off-guard, a feat he had certainly never accomplished before. “Don’t worry about it.” She waved a hand at him. “I’m not in uniform, anyway.”

Dropping his salute somewhat uncertainly, Miles stepped all the way into the office, the door swinging shut behind him. Olivier was curled in her chair, feet tucked beneath her, her paperwork in her lap. She was, as she stated, not in uniform. Miles noted, with some surprise, that she was wearing the same regulation black thermals that served as pajamas for the rest of the men. They were far from revealing, but Miles felt suddenly self-conscious as though he had wandered into a private moment.

“I can go, Sir, I was just-” he floundered. He had always known Olivier was beautiful, but he normally tucked the thought away in a box with his other treasonous thoughts. Seeing her so casually out of uniform, though, it crept out from it’s place between “they should just give Drachma the contested forty thousand acres of frozen tundra”, and “if Buccaneer doesn’t stop snoring...” He tried to push the intrusive thought away, with little success.

“Couldn’t sleep, Major?” She gave him a searching look, every inch as commanding in her pajamas and relaxed pose as she was in full uniform. “Not more recruits, I hope?”

“Not at all, Sir.” Miles rubbed the back of his neck, sheepishly. “I have leave, technically. I was just thinking of getting ahead on some paperwork.”

“You’re using your leave to work?” She snorted. “Why aren’t you in the City with Echo Squad?”

“I’m not much of one for bars.” He admitted. “Besides, Echo isn’t my squad, it’s Buccaneer’s.”

She nodded, and glanced at her papers with a slight grimace. “Since you’re here, and determined to work, make us a pot of coffee.”

Miles complied, crossing the room to the one luxury she had allowed herself--the private coffee stash. Glancing cautiously over his shoulder, Miles selected a decaf blend and began to brew it. She would be angry if she noticed, but it was late.

Behind him he heard her unlocking one of her desk drawers, rifling through the contents somewhat noisily. After a moment, she spoke. “Do you ever rest, Miles?” Except, that wasn’t what Olivier said. Not really. Her meaning was clear, but the melodious rhythm and cadence was not standard Amestrian speech. It took Miles a moment to comprehend why he both did and didn’t understand her words.

“You speak Ishvalan, Sir?” He whirled to face her, the empty mug he had been on the verge of filling slipped from his fingers, shattering on the floor.

“A little.” She frowned at the broken mug. “We had Ishvalan servants when I was a child. My parents sent them away when they discovered how much I was learning from them. It wasn’t seemly for a ‘young lady to spend so much time with the help’.”

Miles nodded, numbly. It made sense, he supposed.

She spoke again in Ishvalan. “My nanny, Omi, was Ishvalan. They replaced her with an Amestrian-” she stopped, unsure of the word, continuing in Amestrian “governess.” She switched back, seemingly effortlessly. “She was a horrible woman.”

Miles finally got up the nerve to speak in Ishvalan, something he had not done for years. “How old were you?”

“Eight.” She frowned, not at him, but rather at her memory. “It was the year my brother was born. I think they already knew he would be a better child than I.”

“Eight? Your Ishvalan is very good.” Miles decided not to touch on the brother, not wanting to anger her.

Olivier shrugged, still frowning. She dropped abruptly back into Amestrian. “It’s an Armstrong thing, I think.”

Miles turned back to the coffee, pouring two mugs. He suspected if he waited long enough, she would continue. As he was stepping over the remains of the fallen mug, she did.

“Do you speak it at home?” It was the first time she had ever asked him anything even remotely personal, and though it was certainly _very_ personal, he found he didn’t mind at all.

“A little.” Miles set the mugs in front of her. “My father used to sing to us in Ishvalan, and tell us traditional tales and the like, but we mostly speak Amestrian.”

She pulled a small bottle from the drawer she had been rifling through minutes before. Miles didn’t have to smell the alcohol as she uncapped it to know it was contraband. Casually, she poured a small amount into each mug and tossed the bottle back in her drawer. She tilted her head to the side, questioningly. “Your father?” She pushed one of the mugs back to him.

Miles nodded, taking a sip of his spiked coffee. It was delightfully warm.

“I thought-” she paused, and cleared her throat. “Miles isn’t an Ishvalan name.”

 _Ah._ “My father took my mother’s name.” Her brows went up at that, so, suppressing a sigh, he clarified. “My mother’s parents wanted her to have a traditional Auregan wedding, and my father’s parents wanted a traditional Ishvalan wedding. They eloped and had Amestrian wedding instead, and this was before the annex, so according to Ishvalan custom, they weren’t considered married. As a result my mother was unable to take my father’s name and they simply switched.”

“That must be awkward at family reunions.”

“A bit.” Miles admitted, with a slight frown. “But my grandparents all came around.”

Olivier seemed to realize she had pried. She cleared her throat again. “You know, there’s a rumor a distant ancestor of mine dabbled in human transmutation.”

“Really?” Miles took another swig of coffee and arched his brows over the top of the mug at her. “Isn’t that taboo?”

She nodded. “It’s kept pretty quiet, but it must be true. Afterall, superhuman strength runs in the family like blond hair and blue eyes.” She took a sip of her coffee and mumbled something into her mug.

“Sorry, what was that?” Miles had an idea, but he wanted to be sure.

She glared at him. “I said, ’why else would we sparkle?’”

“I always thought I was imagining that. It’s a nice trait.”

She glared harder, a small sparkle starting to appear. “It’s humiliating.”

Miles smirked, and took another sip of coffee. Another sparkle twinkled into existence as her eye twitched.

“Do yours always come out when you’re angry?”

She gritted her teeth, but didn’t answer verbally. A third sparkle mocked her efforts to ignore him.

“I think it’s cute.” He told her, the honest statement surprising him as much as her. Her sparkles winked out of existence as her face went abruptly red. Miles’ face followed suit. “Sorry, Sir! It was a joke!”

They both took large gulps of their coffee, avoiding eye contact. Miles waited for her explosion, but it never came. Instead, she leapt to her feet, grabbing her coat off the back of her chair.

“It’s late, Major. We should both be getting some sleep.”

"Yes, Sir.” Miles rose and exited the office, resisting the urge to check if she was still blushing. He knew he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I almost cut this off after Buccaneer and Miles had their conversation, but I decided to include the conversation with Olivier. Hopefully that didn't make it *too* long.


	7. An Onion or a Rose?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter is both long and heavy on the flashbacks.

More than once Miles found himself pondering his conversation with Olivier. He felt he finally had proof of what he had long suspected: under the tough Ice Queen exterior, there lived and breathed a real woman. A woman who felt, who struggled, who _blushed_.

What was it his parents had said when he was a child? “Some people are like flowers”? No, that wasn’t it. Wasn’t there an onion involved? He closed his eyes and thought back.

_He was a child, six or seven, standing on a crate (he couldn’t reasonably reach the counter, otherwise) dicing vegetables while his parents talked. Elle, twenty-seven minutes younger and a whole head taller, was outside hanging laundry._

_“That woman,” Mother remarked, speaking about her brother’s new wife, “is an onion. You peel away all those layers and all you’ll get is tears for your trouble.”_

_“Bah.” Father shook his head. “You’re being unkind.”_

_“How can a person be an onion?” He had queried, bewildered. Father gave Mother a knowing look._

_“What your mother means, dear,” Father came to stand behind him, taking the knife and beginning to work on the harder vegetables so he wouldn’t hurt himself, “is that some people are rather closed off. You have to get to know them, one layer at a time. Like this,” he took an onion and began to peel, “there might be a lot of layers, but when you get down through them, you can tell what a person’s really like.”_

_“And Auntie is bitter like an onion?”_

_Father and Mother exchanged looks over the top of his head. Mother grinned, sheepishly. “That’s not what I meant.”_

_“See, Flor, a better example is rose. When they’re new, they’re closed up tight, and they have all these thorns to protect them. If you try to grab one, you’ll hurt yourself. But, if you’re patient and wait, they open up, only a little at first but eventually, you have a beautiful rose in full bloom. See?”_

_He didn’t, but he nodded._

_As Mother walked out to check on Elle, she muttered, a little louder than intended, “we’ll just see if an onion can bloom into a rose.”_

Miles smiled to himself. That was it, then, an onion or a rose. He had never really decided which of his parents was right, but he suddenly found himself hoping that Olivier was a rose. And maybe, just maybe, their conversation had been the first tentative unfurling of petals.

-

When Miles returned to work, the mug had been swept up and no trace of it remained. From Olivier’s cool, professional demeanor he gathered she had tossed his “joke” in the trash with it. He resolved to keep his guard up and stay out of the office after hours in the future.

“Are you aware, Major, that your roommate has been routinely breaking curfew and brawling?” Olivier fixed him with a piercing stare.

Miles swallowed. “Yes, Sir.”

“And, what are you planning on doing about it?”

“Me, Sir?”

“No, the _other _Major, Major.” She snorted, a dangerous smirk on her lips.__

“I’m not sure, Sir.” He admitted, cautiously.

She leaned across her desk to study him. “Why not?”

“Sorry, Sir?”

“Why don’t you know what you’re going to do?” Truthfully, he hadn’t thought about it. She sighed. “Do you know what you’re lacking?”

“No, Sir.”

“Initiative, Miles.”

“Oh.” He paused. “Sorry, Sir.”

“You know the rules.”

“Of course, Sir. I’ll speak to him tonight.”

“And say what?” Miles bit his lip, trying to draft a speech that she would approve of. She sighed again, a look of near-deadly irritation on her face. “You once mentioned having younger siblings, did you not?”

“Uh, yes, Sir.”

“Is it reasonable to assume you sometimes were responsible for them?”

“Yes, sir.” He really had no idea where this was going.

“Was there ever a time that you told them to do something and they disobeyed simply because they wanted to?”

“Definitely, Sir.”

“How did you handle that?” She opened another folder of paperwork and gave him a stern glare. “Think about that, and then tell me what you’re going to do.”

_Those were stressful time in the Miles’ family home. Father was having increasing difficulty finding work, even after the annex (the Fuhrer had promised better opportunities for the new citizens--the first of many broken promises) and their crowded little ramshackle house was growing more crowded and more ramshackle by the minute. Miles was a gangly teen with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Elle was blossoming, and the boys were noticing. No matter, she spent most of her time holed up in her room, their two younger sisters kicked out (often with screaming), and scribbling in her journal._

_Ian and James routinely went fisticuffs in the yard, but also in the bedroom they shared with Miles, in the kitchen, and wherever the desire (or temper) struck them. Celia was a permanent fixture below the living room window where the reading light was best, squinting at her books (until, one day, it occurred to someone she might need glasses), which only left Rosie hard to find._

_One particular day when their parents were out, Miles went looking for her. It was a tiny three-bedroom home (three bedrooms, six children, two parents--it seemed a lot smaller than it perhaps was) and no matter how many times he told her not to disappear when he was in charge the youngest member of the family had a knack for being impossible to find. After searching the house and yard over it occurred to him to check the tiny attic._

_“Rosie! What are you doing? It’s not safe up here.” The tiny girl gave him an angry glare and shifted on the dusty rafters. “Come on, Rosie, you’re getting your dress filthy.”_

_“Go away!”_

_“Don’t say that, it makes you sound like Elle.”_

_“Don’t care.”_

_“Rosie-”_

_“No.”_

_“You’re too old for this. Come down. Now.”_

_“Nuh-uh.”_

_“Fine.” He sighed and stepped onto a rafter, which creaked ominously. “But, I’m not leaving you alone up here. You might get hurt.” Elle could watch the others, for a while. “So,” he settled down on the uncomfortably narrow beam, “why are you hiding?”_

_“Elle kicked me out.”_

_“She’s not feeling well, you know that. Just try to be patient.” (How a seven year old was supposed to be patient, when, at almost-sixteen, all he wanted to do was scream at the world, was beyond him.)_

_“Mother said she’s having ‘women problems’.”_

_That, Miles did not especially care to know. “All the more reason to be patient with her, hmm?”_

_Rosie huffed. “It’s too crowded.” Miles, silently, agreed. He felt a bit bad telling Rosie off when he realized all she wanted was a space of her own. They sat for several minutes in silence, before Rosie blurted.“I don’t want another sibling!”_

_“I-What?” Where did that come from?_

_“Mother told Father she’s having another baby!”_

_“When? Wait--Rosie, were you eavesdropping?”_

_“Don’t tattle!”_

_“I won’t. When did she say this?”_

_“Last night. After we were supposed to be in bed. I went to get a drink of water, and I heard her!”_

_Oh. A lot of unpleasant things had happened after that, including a very ugly row with his mother who had nearly slapped him, for his tongue, and had resulted in his father taking him out to the woodshed (literally) for an admittedly-deserved switching. Regardless, once he understood his sister, he had figured out a way to help her feel less cramped especially after the new baby turned out to be a girl. It had taken some effort, but he had built a little platform into the attic so that Rosie could have her own little place without the danger of crashing suddenly into the room below._

Maybe he needed to figure out how to help his roommate, rather than pointlessly tell him not to keep breaking the rules. As soon as Olivier approved his plan he set to work.

“Charlie Squad, Echo Squad! Follow me!” He ordered sternly, startling the two squads from their lunch break.

“Yes, Sir!” They fell in regardless of the subtle confusion playing about their faces.

“You see this mess?” He indicated the dusty storage room, unused since 1882.

“Yes, Sir!”

“I want it cleaned and cleared, by 1700!”

“Yes, Sir!” They set to work, though Buccaneer crossed the room to stand in front of Miles.

“What’s this about, Sir?” He asked, sarcasm lacing the edges of his voice, just enough to be impudent.

“That’s not your concern, Lieutenant.” Miles informed him, loud and authoritative. He lowered his voice to a level the others couldn’t hear. “You’ll see soon enough, Buccaneer. Don’t worry.” Buccaneer grinned at that and threw himself into his work.

Miles marched down to supplies and handed over his requisitions order. The sergeant raised his brows at the list, but said nothing as he loaded up crates for him. “Deliver these to Storage Room R13 at 1700 hours.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Miles returned to his normal work, with a slight spring in his step. So far, so good. 1700 hours rolled around and Miles found R13 sparkling clean, and the two squads, tired but cheerful.

“Good work, men!” Miles allowed the men a few moments to celebrate, before he grinned. “But you’re not done, yet.” Cheers turned to groans. Miles extended his sketch. “You’ll find all the supplies you need to make this sketch a reality in the crates being delivered by supplies. Work fast.”

He smiled internally, as he heard the men begin to understand what they were working on and their voices rose to an excited fervor.

At 1930, the project concluded and Miles inspected it, before bringing Olivier down to see it. “Well, Sir?” He asked after a minute of her studying the room. The storage room was now a fully-equipped sparring room, padded walls covered in brackets, and the floor decorated with a painted ring.

Olivier said nothing, merely quirked her brow, twitched the corner of her lips upward, and crossed to make an alteration to the bracket. Across the top she wrote: “Winner vs. Gen. Armstrong” and that was enough praise for Miles.

“Listen up, men!” Miles announced to the waiting squads. “General Armstrong has generously allowed an exception to the curfew. Nightly sparring matches will be held to sharpen your skills.” He grinned, slyly. “Watch out for Lt. Buccaneer’s automail. That is all. Dismissed!”

-

“Thanks, Major.” Buccaneer muttered, as they prepared to turn in for the night.

“I don’t know what you mean, Lieutenant.” Miles quirked his friend a slight smile. “I know you weren’t worried about your automail holding you back. Or your three years out of the military for recuperation.”

“Right.” Buccaneer grunted, switching off the light. “I’m definitely not self-conscious.”

\---

One night, Buccaneer had turned in uncharacteristically early, and Miles found himself strolling up to Olivier’s office book in hand, looking for a place to read without disturbing his roommate. This time he knocked.

“Enter.” Her voice held a dangerous chill. Thorns out, then. Maybe he had read too much into their last late-night meeting.

“Sorry, Sir. I was thinking of doing a little reading. It’s lights-out in my barrack. I can go down to the mess.” He turned to leave.

“Alpha Group is doing a deep clean in there, Major. They had the lowest training scores this week. Just read here.” She indicated his desk, barely glancing up from her paperwork.

“Yes, Sir. Thank you.” Miles sank into his chair, thankful she was still in uniform. He opened his book, but didn’t start reading. Against his better judgement, he opened his mouth again. “Have you left the office since I clocked out, Sir?”

“What?”

“Oh.” She frowned. “I had food sent up. General Grumman has sent three letters, and I think he might just turn up here if I don’t write back.” She muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “old goat” under her breath.

Ignoring the unsavory comment Miles queried, “What about, Sir?”

“He’s trying to set up a joint training session here at Briggs.” She sighed. “I don’t have time for this. Drachma is hardly going to sit back and let us train in peace.” Miles nodded, and turned his attention to his book. Normally, once he started reading his focus was unshakeable, but Olivier was a compelling distraction. When she made an angry “tch” sound and threw down her pen, he lowered his book.

“This is useless!”

“I’m sorry, Sir. Can I be of assistance?”

“Do you have a spare fort?” She crumpled up her half-written letter and threw it on the floor.

“Of course, Sir, I keep it under my pillow.” He told her dryly. She glared. “Surely, General Grumman can see the reason in not hosting the training here.”

“Tch.” She stared at the door for several long minutes as though it might hold the answer. “Still, I suppose he’s preferable to Blackburn.”

Miles started. She had not spoken of Blackburn since his visit and Miles had regarded it as a taboo topic. Something was still bothering him, though. “Sir?” He took a deep breath.

“Yes, Major?” She faced him again, blue eyes reserved, but not deadly.

“There’s one thing I never understood. Why did you-?” He trailed off. He was normally never afraid of uncomfortable topics, but he was oddly hesitant with _her_.

“Let him beat me?” She asked, a slight smirk on her face.

“Yes, Sir.”

“The thing you have to understand about Blackburn is he doesn’t really care that you’re Ishvalan. I’m sure he doesn’t like that fact about you, but that isn’t his main problem. His problem is actually me.” She was back to staring at the door, speaking slowly, almost distantly. “He was in his last year at the Academy when I was in my first. I was only the third woman to ever attend. Being a woman in the academy back then, was...dangerous. He has always been obsessed with power. He loved the power trips from making my life hell. Anyone he could justify abusing he would. It’s just who he is.”

Miles nodded, he hadn’t known they had attended the academy at the same time, but it made sense. Though he hadn’t known her, he, himself, had only been two years behind Olivier. This information still didn’t answer his questions, though.

“He never did get what he wanted, though. In spite of his best efforts, I am successful, powerful even. He resents that. I think that’s why he convinced the rest of high command to give me an adjutant who wanted me dead. I doubt it took much convincing, the military has a way of dealing with soldiers who don’t fit their mold.”

She was uncharacteristically quiet as she spoke, and Miles wondered if he had pried too far. Before he had the chance to retract his question she continued.

“You don’t fit that mold, Miles. I knew when I selected you as an adjutant he would use your heritage to justify picking a fight. I’m not afraid to fight him, but he made it clear there would be collateral if I did.” She didn’t have to tell him, he knew, he would have definitely been part of that “collateral”. “I find that unacceptable.”

She paused for a moment, drawing a deep breath. “When he came to my temporary office with another general and a handful of thugs I handed over my weapons and let them beat me down. He got his power trip and I gained a valuable asset.”

The silence that fell in the office was too heavy to bear. “Thank you, Sir.”

Miles shook his head. “You saved me.”

She laughed coldly. “You could easily have used your Amestrian ancestry to lay low as a civilian. Maybe even married a nice Amestrian girl. You wouldn’t have needed protection if you hadn’t followed me here.”

“That’s not what I meant.” He took off his snow goggles and looked her straight in the eye. “You gave me a reason to overcome my anger, showed me a way to fight for a better future. Without you, I would have turned against this country. I would have been dead or in jail.”

“I only hope one day this country will deserve your loyalty. I certainly don’t.”

In a moment of bravery, he shook his head again. “You’re the one who deserves better,” he knew he shouldn’t, that he might just be run through for it, but he allowed himself to add “Olivier.”

“Go to bed, Major.” She sat back, her face unreadable. “You’re turning into an idiot.”

“Yes, Sir.”

\---

“Focus, Major!” Olivier had not spared them in her ruthless training regiment and Miles was slowing down at the end of a long hour of sparring.

“Sorry, Sir.” He fixed his form and swung his sword again, this time making contact with her left arm.

“Excellent.” She tucked the arm behind her back and continued. “You’re making progress.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Miles watched her carefully. He had come a long way since his first disastrous sword fight with her, but still hadn’t won a match.

She smirked at him as she struck, forcing him to duck. Irritated, Miles swung straight up, knocking her arm back. It hadn’t been a calculated move, which was probably why it took her a moment to recover. That moment turned out to be all the time he needed. He grabbed the inside of her elbow and forced her arm up, stepping in to smirk down at her.

“I think I won.” He informed her.

“Not yet.” She stood on tiptoe and leaned in close. His brain froze, and butterflies erupted in his stomach. Her lips brushed his and he closed his eyes, warmth spreading through him. He wasn’t aware of releasing her arm, but he must have because she stepped away suddenly and dealt him a heavy blow. He staggered and fell.

“If a Drachman soldier ever makes gooey eyes at you,” she snarled at him, “do us all a favor--stand _in front_ of our tanks.” She turned and stormed from the room in a flurry of dark sparkles.

Moments later, Buccaneer wandered in the door Olivier had just exited looking confused.

“What did you say to her?!”

Miles had no answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always, I appreciate feedback.


	8. A Shocking Proposal

The next few days were, predictably, awkward. Olivier was proceeding as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but Miles couldn’t pretend as easily. He spoke only when spoken to, answering with clipped “Yes, Sirs” and “No, Sirs”. He arrived exactly on time, and left as soon as he was dismissed, taking his breaks in places he knew she wouldn’t be. Olivier was growing frustrated with his awkwardness, but he continued his stilted performance. It was far easier to put up a facade of stiff professionalism than to confront the reality his general had kissed him.

It didn’t help that he was deeply conflicted. As much as he wanted to believe there was a deeper motive (though he couldn’t fathom her having anything resembling _feelings_ for him), she was acting as though it had been a simple strategic move. Maybe it had been, but he couldn’t help but wonder if she would have done the same in a match with Buccaneer or any of the other Briggs men. And if she had, he wasn’t sure it would have worked as well, which always caught him on the point of why it had worked so well. He admired her, certainly, and that admiration had begun to feel an awful lot like fondness.

“Honestly, Miles!” Olivier’s exclamation cut through his musing and he looked up from the report he was meant to be reading. She was standing beside him glaring, and he knew she could tell he was too lost in thought to pay it any attention.

“Yes, Sir?” He asked stiffly, looking up at her. He hadn’t noticed her cross the room to his desk. He really _was_ distracted.

He expected her to shout, but instead she reached down and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket pulling him up to her. For the second time, their lips met. Where the kiss during the sparring match had been swift and gentle this one was rougher, almost passionate. Miles found himself reciprocating, rising all the way from his seat to kiss her better. Then his brain turned back on. Gripping her wrists gently, he broke her hold on his jacket and pushed her away.

“You can’t just go around kissing your subordinates, Sir.” He told her, regretfully, heart pounding treacherously loudly.

“You’re not just any subordinate, Miles.” Her face was unreadable. Miles had long ago accepted that Armstrong-the-soldier and Olivier-the-woman were two separate people with little overlap; The woman before him was undoubtedly Olivier-the-woman but she seemed distant and _almost_ fragile.

“I cannot deny, and you must have observed, I have certain _affections_ for you.” She said the word affections almost distastefully. She made no move to break his hold of her wrists. “Perhaps I misunderstood but you seemed to reciprocate. I make it a point not to get too attached to my comrades, and certainly not to my subordinates, but you have been persistent in securing a place in my...” She trailed off, apparently unwilling to say he had a place in her heart. Miles was surprised to see she looked somewhere between miserable and furious. His heart was pounding so hard he could see it moving his jacket. She tilted her face back up, an odd expression on it. “Marry me, Miles?”

That was, frankly, the last thing he had expected. His shock must have shown because she continued. “I am not romantic by nature, you must understand. But, my offer is sincere. I have been forced to conclude that-” she drew a deep breath, gathering courage and a certain steeliness in her eyes. “I love you.” It was, quite possibly, the most terrifying thing he had ever heard her say.

Miles didn’t, _couldn’t_ , reply. His eyes roamed her face taking in the sincerity in her eyes, the way she bit her lip, suddenly nervous, her rapid blinking. He could sense her starting to close back up as the moments ticked into minutes. Olivier was receding and Armstrong began to replace her, a mask sliding in to cover the raw emotion she had allowed him to glimpse.

“W-What does love even mean to you?” He released her wrists and stepped back.

She scowled for a moment, then furrowed her brow thoughtfully. “The same as to anyone, I suppose, undying loyalty, commitment, and trust.”

If that was what love was, then, “I love you, too.” He finally managed. Before that moment he never could have admitted it, not even in the quiet of his own thoughts, but he did love her. Was he _in_ love with her? He didn’t know.

The mask vanished again. “And my question?”

“Then, to you, marriage would mean-?”

“If we are to admit to and accept this-” her nose crinkled, almost disdainfully “-love that we share, then I demand your promise to stay by my side. Always. I must know you will not abandon me.”

She seemed in that moment more sincere than he had ever seen her. He doubted she meant to reveal it to him, but she was obviously afraid to love, to be _loved_. She sighed and put a hand on her hip. “Your answer?”

He didn’t want to fail her, to hurt her, and well, there were worse reasons to get married, weren’t there? “Yes, Sir!” His stomach turned cartwheels and he grinned broadly, if a bit shakily, throwing his arms around her.

She was oddly stiff and disjointed in his arms. "What are you doing?”

“I’m hugging you.” He replied, with a soft laugh.

“Oh.” She didn’t move.

“You have been hugged before, haven’t you?” He was still laughing.

“My parents used to. A long time ago.” He could hear her frowning. “I don’t remember how.”

“It’s easy.” He was beaming from ear to ear, giddiness mingling with nervousness. “Here.” He guided her arms around him, and pulled her closer. He settled one hand on the small of her back, and used the other to position her head on his shoulder. Nestling his head against hers, he realized he had forgotten a critical direction. “Now, relax.”

She complied somewhat hesitantly, and he rubbed her back soothingly. “See?”

“If you say so.” There was a pause and then. “We shouldn’t do this in uniform.”

“I know.” He didn’t let her go. “Just this once won’t hurt, Sir.”

“Alright.” She acquiesced surprisingly readily. “You may call me by name in these situations.”

“Yes, Olivier.” He chuckled.

“One more thing.” She pulled back and removed his goggles. “You should kiss me again.”

So, pushing aside the thought he had just agreed to marry a woman he barely _knew_ he did.

-

It was several hours before they returned to their work, too caught up in making arrangements to focus on paperwork. They laid plans and set themselves strict rules to avoid finding themselves on the wrong side of the anti-fraternization laws. Miles’ nervousness was giving way to giddiness, and he couldn’t keep the idiotic grin off his face. For her part, Olivier rolled her eyes and quirked him a slightly puzzled smile when she caught him staring at her, awestruck.

Eventually, though, they did have to return to their military roles and finish their paperwork. As it was it was a few hours past his normal dinner time when Miles made his way down to the mess. As it happened, Echo was late returning from their patrol and Buccaneer flagged him over to their table immediately.

“You’re in a good mood.” Buccaneer noted, jovially. Miles shrugged noncommittally. “I know why.” Buccaneer smirked conspiratorially.

“Really?” Miles kept his tone wry, but his stomach dropped.

“Yeah, it’s that joint training project you’re working on!”

“Oh, yeah.” Relief flooded him, followed by suspicion. “Wait, how do you know about that?”

Buccaneer mumbled something through his mouthful of food giving Miles an unappetizing view of half-chewed broccoli.

He lowered his fork, disgusted. “What?”

“Sorry.” Buccaneer swallowed noisily and took a gulp of water. “Karley.”

“Karley?” Miles repeated, dubiously.

“Yeah.” Buccaneer shoveled in some mashed potatoes. “They get the best gossip down in the city.”

“Are you two penpals or something?” Miles searched his plate for something Buccaneer didn’t have, and therefore could not ruin for him.

“Something like that.” Buccaneer bit a huge chunk off his slab of “mystery meat”.

“That’s disgusting.” Miles wasn’t a vegetarian by a long shot, but the food rations at Briggs were turning him into one--one slab of stringy “meat” at a time. Buccaneer laughed heartily, and Miles winced as meat bits splattered on the table. “I take it back, _you’re_ disgusting.”

“So, is it true the Ice Queen hates this General Grumman guy?”

“Who?”

“You know, the Eastern Commander.”

“I know who General Grumman is.” Miles nibbled on his brownie, grateful Buccaneer had opted for a cookie instead. “Who do you mean ‘Ice Queen’?”

“Are you serious?!” Buccaneer roared with laughter. “We have got to get you out more! All the men are calling General Armstrong the Ice Queen! Karley says they’re even doing it in the city!”

“Oh. Does she know that?”

“I dunno. Maybe.” Buccaneer grinned. “We can find out.”

“You mean you can.” Miles told him somewhat stiffly. “I like my head attached to my body, thank you very much.” He couldn’t admit it to Buccaneer, but he didn’t want the marriage proposal retracted, either.

“Sounds like a challenge.” Buccaneer’s eyes were lit with his trademark mania.

Miles sighed and shook his head. “It’s your head, Lieutenant.”

“Hey, Buccaneer!” One of the other lieutenants from Echo interjected, tapping his watch meaningfully.

“Oh, yeah!” Buccaneer shoveled down the rest of his food in record time. “See ya, Sir!” Echo Squad rose as one and hustled from the mess leaving Miles frowning after them. Strange things were happening at Briggs, and not just his engagement to their very own Ice Queen.

-

Whatever Buccaneer and his squad were up to, Miles soon realized he would have to wait to find out. During the day his time was taken up working on plans for the joint training exercises set to take place the following spring. Once a formal announcement was made his work doubled, as the Briggs Bear fought for his time to answer their questions.

At night, he spent his time talking and planning with Olivier. He took every opportunity to learn more about her, testing the limits of their strange new relationship. She permitted him to call her Liv in tender moments, Olivier otherwise, and Livvie or Oli never. He hadn’t known she had a middle name; He liked it. She refused to talk about her family or her childhood. She was willing to talk, at least a little, about her time at the Academy and early military career, but not about a period of several years spent in the West.

She was not inclined to instigate shows of affection, but she liked it when he held her hand or kissed her. She remained uncomfortable with anything resembling hugging or cuddling. He trailed his fingers through her thick hair and marveled at the softness and she didn’t complain.

Once, she pulled his glasses off and simply stared into his deep red eyes for so long he began to fear she was regretting choosing an Ishvalan. “Don’t wear these when it’s just us.” She pressed the glasses into his hand. “Your eyes are too beautiful to hide.” He didn’t know how to respond, so he pulled her in for a kiss. She pushed him away after a minute and turned back to planning without a second thought.

They had a very narrow window in which to operate before they ran the risk of being snowed in for the winter. It was unusual, he knew, to get married so quickly but, even if she had not demanded it, he could not imagine what a Briggs courtship would look like.

-

“I’ll leave it to you to find suitable lodgings in North City.” Olivier told him one evening as she sipped a mug of coffee. “I’ve sent home for something suitable to wear.” Miles choked on his own coffee and stared at her. “Not a dress.” She told him dryly. “My sister is sending clothes, she believes, for an undercover operation. I have no civilian clothing.”

Miles nodded. “I’ll find something in the City.”

“I took the liberty of having her select something for you, as well.” Olivier informed him. “I took your measurements from the uniform size in your file.”

“Thank you.” He hoped that was the right thing to say.

“I also prepared a leave request form for you.” She handed it to him. “It needs to be filled out in your own hand, though.”

“When have you had time to work on all this?” Miles asked her, taking the form and flipping through it.

She smirked at him. “The nice thing about having an adjutant is you can delegate the boring work.”

“Hey!” He protested in mock indignation. “Is that why I’ve been so busy?” His question was slightly more sincere.

Her only response was to continue smirking.

\---

“If you don’t stop grinning like an idiot the men will suspect something.” Olivier told Miles through gritted teeth. The day had finally come for him to make his journey down to North City. Olivier had insisted he continue working until it was time for the convoy to make it’s way down the mountain.

“Sorry, Sir.” He schooled his features into a more appropriate neutral expression. “They’ll understand, though. I’ve told them I’m meeting my wife down in Central.”

Olivier rolled her eyes at him. “I know that, Miles. Finish your paperwork or I might just revoke your leave.”

Miles hastened to comply, knowing she wouldn’t go through with her threat. She would have to finish his work, though, and he didn’t want anything to delay her following him in two days. She had a meeting at North HQ to cover her absence, and if it ran late as often happened, she would conveniently miss her convoy back. Miles liked to think it was a particularly clever plan on his part.

Finally, it was time to leave and Miles swung by his barrack to collect his pack, putting extra effort into keeping the spring out of his step, and the nervous grin off his face.

“Hey! I hear you’re going to see your wife.” Buccaneer was utilizing his lunch break to pour over the most recent addition of _Automail Quarterly_ , his favorite magazine. He took a break from his reading to eye Miles suspiciously.

“Uh, yes.” Lying to Buccaneer was the hardest part of pulling off this plan and he’d been dodging talking to him about it for several weeks.

“You’ve never mentioned her.” Buccaneer was frowning at him. “I hope you have a good reason not to wear a ring.”

“I-” Miles hesitated. “We never had them. We didn’t have a lot starting out. We’re getting them this week, though!” He made a move toward the door, but Buccaneer stopped him with a question.

“What’s her name?”

Miles blanched. In all his planning he hadn’t thought to consider someone asking her name. He settled for a half-truth. “Mira.” He hoped Buccaneer was satisfied. “I have to go, or they’ll leave without me.”

“Alright.” Buccaneer was still watching him suspiciously. “You and Mira have a good time, then.”

“Thanks, Lieutenant!”

As it was, Miles barely made it to the front gate in time. He leapt onto the back of the truck just before it pulled out. The ride down the mountain was surprisingly pleasant, even with his stomach tying itself into knots. The other men taking leave were in high spirits and swapped stories and plans for their leave readily, apparently oblivious to his nervous silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I aimed to put the proposal between Darcy (Pride and Prejudice) and Eugenides (The Queen's Thief) on the scale of poorly executed confessions of love. So, I'd really love to know if I succeeded.


	9. Scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's purely coincidental that this chapter falls on Valentine's Day, but I think it works.

The sun was already setting when Miles arrived at the North City Hall two days later. He checked the time nervously. Olivier was running late, but there was still time. She had called the moment her meeting adjourned to tell him to go on ahead and start the paperwork; She would be there soon. He hoped she would make it.

“I’m here for a marriage license.” He told the bored looking secretary.

She raised an eyebrow. “Do you have a bride to go with it?”

Miles flushed. “She’s running behind, she said to start the paperwork without her.”

“Whatever you say.” The secretary began rummaging through a filing cabinet. “She has to be here for the ceremony, you know.”

“I know.” Miles kept his tone as polite as possible.

“Okay. Well, we close in half an hour. We need at least ten minutes for the ceremony.” The woman sounded like she doubted Olivier would show. “Do you need a birth certificate as well? You can file it in nine months or whatever.”

“I’m sorry, what?” He was sure he misheard.

“You’re getting married half an hour before we close on a Friday night.” The secretary stated matter of factly. “I’m not judging, but most of you soldier types only have one reason for that.”

“Oh.” Miles was sure he resembled a tomato now. “No, just the marriage license.” He hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask how you knew I was a soldier?” He was wearing the very handsome suit Amue Armstrong had sent. It was a charcoal grey, and made of the softest fabric he had ever felt. She had even included a burgundy silk tie for him, which he was sure cost more alone than any whole suit he had ever owned. He had never felt less like a soldier.

“Those snow goggles.” The secretary told him. “All you Fort Briggs guys think they make you look so tough.”

“Ah.” Miles started filling out the paperwork before him.

“Sorry I’m late.” Olivier burst through the door, managing to make her windswept appearance look majestic rather than harried.

“You still have ten minutes.” The secretary told her. She turned to Miles incredulously. “This is your bride?” He nodded, dumbstruck.

Olivier was always beautiful, even in uniform, but now she was positively stunning. She was wearing a fitted black vest over a white blouse and for a moment Miles thought she was wearing a long skirt. When she moved towards him, though, he realized she was wearing flowing burgundy trousers. He had to smile when he saw she had paired these with her combat boots. Sensible, to be sure, if a little odd.

“Are you going to stare at me all night?” She asked him, somewhat irritated, a minute later.

“Probably.” He admitted, taking her hand. “Ready?”

She nodded, looking suddenly somber. “Are you?”

“Beyond a shadow of a doubt.” He kissed her cheek gently and she smiled.

“Right.” The secretary looked like she wanted to vomit. “If you’ll follow me.”

The judge seemed, somehow, even more unimpressed than the secretary. “We are gathered-,” he began. He looked around the room and noticed the complete absence of family. “Well, you two. You’re here today to get married.” He sighed and glanced at the clock on the wall behind them. “Face each other and join hands, please.”

They did, with only a slight kerfuffle as Olivier pried off her gloves and shoved them into her pockets. He rambled for a few minutes, punctuating every few sentences with a sigh and a glance at the clock. Miles ignored him in favor of watching Olivier who was mouthing insults and glaring at the judge whenever he looked away.

“Now, do you have rings?” The judge asked, glancing at Olivier who gave him an unconvincing innocent smile.

“Yes.” Miles pulled them from his pocket, and held them out. They were simple matching silver bands. Though Olivier would be unable to wear hers, he had felt it important to have one to give her.

“Good.” The judge sighed, again. “Now, do you-” he consulted their paperwork “Olivier Armstrong take-” he consulted it again. “Flor-” A frown appeared and Miles could tell he didn’t know how to pronounce it. No one ever did.

“Just Miles.” He said hastily. “I never use my first name.” Olivier had tried to use it once, and, unable to take him seriously, had been overcome with uncharacteristic giggles. She had not been the first to react that way.

“Just Miles, then.” The judge continued monotonously “anyway, do you take him as your husband until death do you part?” Miles was fairly sure that was an abridged version of the standard vows, but he doubted the judge cared so long as he could go home.

“I do.”

“Good. Do you, Just Miles, take Olivier to be your wife until death do you part?”

Ignoring Olivier’s snicker at the judge’s misunderstanding of his name, Miles nodded. “I do.”

“Olivier, please put his ring on his finger.” Olivier slid the ring onto his finger with a genuine smile.

“Alright, Just you can do the same.” To her credit, Olivier covered her laugh with a coughing fit. Miles slipped her ring on, wishing suddenly that he could have given her a diamond or similar. Even if he could afford one, though, she was much too practical.

“Now, sign here and here.” The judge pointed to the appropriate spots on the marriage license. They complied, Olivier still “coughing”. “I pronounce you husband and wife.” The judge informed them, looking relieved. “You can kiss your bride,” he told Miles, “if you must.”

Miles slipped his arms around Olivier and kissed her swiftly. He had a feeling the judge would kick them out if they didn’t hurry. “Thank you.” He took the marriage license. “Have a good evening.”

“Sure.” The judge was already gathering his coat and hat.

Out on the street Olivier burst out laughing for real. “That was perfect!” She told him, clutching her side. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone who hated their job so much!”

“I’m glad you found it amusing.” Miles shook his head, as she doubled over with laughter. “I was hoping for something more romantic.”

She straightened, catching her breath. “We’re the least romantic couple I know. Trust me, that was perfect.”

Chuckling slightly, Miles shook his head again. “If you say so.” He offered his arm. “I made us dinner reservations, if you’re done laughing.”

“Excellent. I’m starving.” She took his arm awkwardly, and Miles realized she had never accepted a man’s arm before. He switched to holding her hand, instead. To his chagrin, she wasn’t quite done laughing. “Lead the way, Just!”

-

After dinner, they strolled through North City hand in hand. North City’s park was a bit rundown, though it had a sort of rustic charm and they stopped on a bridge to watch the ice skaters on the frozen river below.

“Look at them.” Olivier commented, leaning on the brick rail. “So happy and carefree.”

“You say that like its a bad thing.” Miles turned to study her face. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” Her face softened slightly. “I actually feel, sort of, carefree. I’m definitely happy. I’m-" she paused, a frown flickering across her face "-unaccustomed to it.”

“I hope you get accustomed to it.”

She smirked at that. “I suppose you’re going to help me?”

“Most definitely.” He grinned and wrapped his arms around her. She didn’t shrug him off, and a jolt of warmth ran through him. His rose was in full bloom. _His._ The truth of it hit him like a ton of bricks, and he nearly staggered.

He would never dare to lay claim to something, _someone_ , as powerful, beautiful, and wild as Olivier. She was winter personified, a deadly cold force, uncontrollable, untameable, and yet, somehow, his. She had chosen it, willingly, chosen him, he might not understand it, but as surely as he belonged to her, she belonged to him. And he was hopelessly in love.

\---

Battered. It was the first word that came to mind when he looked at her, really, truly, looked at her for the first time. She was beautiful and unabashed as he took her in, but her body was covered with the marks of a warrior. Raised, red, scars covered her form and he hesitantly reached out to skim his fingers over them. She responded by trailing her fingers over the many scars that marred his body.

“Who knew supplies could be so dangerous?” She teased, running a thumb over a scar on his shoulder.

“I got that in an Auregan border skirmish.” He retorted, feeling the way her ribs jutted unnaturally on her left side.

“Cretan grenade attack.” She explained, “I took some shrapnel hard.”

“Shrapnel?”

“It might have been more like a brick to the ribcage.”

“Mmm.” He trailed a hand down to the place where her adjutant had stabbed her, a scar he had anticipated. “This didn’t heal very well, did it?”

“Someone told me I wasn’t taking good enough care of it.”

“Smart man.”

She snorted. Her eyes flitted, briefly, to the prominent scar on his chest, but seemed to sense his hesitance. Her hand found a raised scar on his lower back, instead. “What happened here?”

“A fight at the Academy. I fell on a rack of weapons.”

“Fell or was pushed?”

“What do you think?” She snorted, again, at his response. He ignored her. “What happened to your knee?”

“Oh, that?” She glanced down, and for the first time looked a little sheepish. “I actually fell out of a tree as a child.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really. My dress caught on a branch.”

“I got this punching a wall.” He offered, showing her a scar on his wrist. “My grandfather was not impressed, made me patch the hole myself.” He shrugged. “Guess I deserved that.”

“Mm. Did you fight a lot at the Academy?”

“I would say yes, but that implies it was mutual.”

She raised a severe brow at him. “Was it?”

“Sometimes.” He admitted, foregoing inquiring about a scar on her shoulder in place of kissing it, gently. “Mostly I was targeted, though. You?”

“You have to ask?” She smirked at him. “A little, well, a lot of both.”

“Thought so.”

They were silent, but not still, for several minutes before Olivier spoke, her finger trailing the long scar on his sternum. “Who tried to kill you?”

He hesitated a long time before he began to explain, the memory vivid as though it had happened days and not years before.

_Summers in his grandfather’s Gunjan home were always unbearably hot. Miles made his way across the small city center wishing his grandfather would have at least come to pick him up, after insisting his first stop after the Academy adjourned for the summer break would be Ishval. Eyes followed him through the market--he was the grandson of the town’s most prominent scholar, and they were used to seeing him every summer. He didn’t miss the decidedly unfriendly shift in their behavior, though. No one waved or called to him, and a few people even turned pointedly away. Ducking through an alleyway, he wasn’t anticipating trouble on his usual shortcut. He paused to take in colorful propaganda posters._

_DEFY AMESTRIS_

_KEEP ISHVAL PURE_

_He had known fanaticism was taking hold in several districts, but he wasn’t expecting it in the quiet hub of Ishvalan academia._

_“You interested in our cause?” A slender young man slithered from the shadows, red eyes taking in Miles’ appearance coolly. “Oh! You’re Zharad’s grandson aren’t you? The traitor?” Miles ignored him, and made to keep moving, but the young man spat in his face. Enraged, he swung._

_The scuffle was brief, and had the other man been alone he would have easily won. However, his opponent had, unfortunately, not been alone. In a flurry of tanned limbs, grey hair loosed from its fastenings, and angry red eyes, he found himself pinned to the alley wall, panting hard. The speaker gripped a handful of his sash._

_“You think you’re worthy of this, Amestrian scum?” His assailant demanded._

_Miles glimpsed the glint of a knife and fear washed over him. He knew what was coming, and he squeezed his eyes shut, mentally cursing himself for wearing the sash. The knife ripped through his sash, through his shirt, and through his flesh in one swift strike. Blood spattered across the alleyway, coating him and his assailants in one go. Just before he lost consciousness, Miles vowed to never again wear the sash that marked him as belonging to Ishvala; he’d always be too Amestrian to be Ishvalan, (and too Ishvalan to be Amestrian), anyway._

Olivier didn’t say anything as he finished his tale, merely kissed him over and over, till her kisses turned to solace, and solace to something else.

\---

Miles jolted awake the next morning as something ice cold touched his back. “What on earth-?” He sat up and turned to Oliver who was sitting beside him, smirking.

“My feet were cold.” She explained.

“Put socks on, then.” He laid back down.

“That’s no fun.” She pressed her icy feet to his stomach.

“Hey!” He pushed them away, laughing in spite of himself. “You really are an Ice Queen!”

“What?” She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Oh.” He ran his fingers sheepishly through his hair. “Some of the men, not me, but some of the men, call you the Ice Queen. Like the story, you know?”

“Because of my ice-cold heart?” Her face was stony, but her eyes were twinkling.

“Yes.” He sat up and kissed her. “But if they knew how cold your feet were-” Olivier cut him off with a playful shove. He slipped sideways and toppled off the bed. Laughing, he grabbed hold of her arm and pulled her down after.

The rest of their weekend passed in a similar fashion. They were, truly, in love, no matter how strange it might have been. And while the weekend was a haven from reality, they were consciously aware of the time limit for such carefree behavior and determined to make the most of it.

-

It seemed only a blink of an eye before Oliver donned her uniform and headed to meet the Briggs-bound convoy first thing Monday morning. She gave him one final kiss and then Miles was left alone to mope until he could rejoin her at the fort, which left him just one more thing to take care of.

He stood in front of the hotel lobby’s phone for a long minute before he dialed a familiar number.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Elle.”

“Well, well, if it isn’t Florentino.” His sister’s dry voice greeted him.

“Don’t call me that.”

“Fine, Miles, then. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Why do you assume that there’s something wrong?”

“Your letters are getting fewer and further between, and I don’t remember the last time you actually called.”

“Ah.” He paused for a long moment. “Have my checks made it?”

“Yes. But Grandmother has bronchitis, so they’re not helping as much as before. James is thinking about quitting his apprenticeship and looking for work with more pay.”

“Tell him not to do that.” Miles sighed. “I’ll work something out, I promise.”

“Alright.” Elle sighed, too. “What’s going on with you, brother? We miss you down here.”

“I have good news actually. I-” he swallowed, she was going to _kill_ him “I’m married.” Silence. The soft crackle of the telephone. “Elle? Say something. Please?”

“I-Is she pregnant?”

“No! Of course not! Why would you even think-?”

“Then, _why_? Why on earth would you do this to us?” When Miles didn’t answer she continued. “First you just take off for _Fort Briggs_ , with no warning! And then we barely hear from you! Now you’re _married?!_ ”

“I realize this must seem sudden-”

“You do, do you?” She snorted, dryly. “Some _hussy_ has you wrapped around her little finger-”

“She’s not a hussy! Elle!”

“Don’t chastise me, brother!”

An angry silence fell.

“Sorry.”

“Me too.”

“Come home soon. Please. We miss you.”

“I miss you, too. I’ll try.”

“I’ll let you go. Probably racking up quite the bill.”

“Right. Say hello to everyone for me.”

“Alright. I love you, brother.”

He smiled. “You too, sister.”

There was a pause and then the gentle click of Elle hanging up. With a sigh, Miles followed suit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I feel like Olivier was a little OOC for this chapter, for which I apologize. I felt she would probably be a bit uncomfortable, and would normally cover it with aggression, but wouldn't want to be that way with Miles. Ergo, she uses humor to cover that, somewhat successfully.


	10. Intruder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Friday, another chapter.

Not long after Miles returned to Briggs, winter set in for real. Caught up in the busyness of the season, Miles and Olivier had little time to spend together outside of their work. It was easier than Miles had imagined in some ways, and in others much more difficult. Nevertheless, they carried on.

In the middle of an engineering briefing covering the most recent round of testing on their anti-tank weapons, (which even Olivier was yawning through) the alarm began to sound. The whole fort seemed to come alive at once.

“We've caught an intruder, Sir!” A sergeant burst into engineering.

“Where?” Olivier drew her sword and prepared to run.

“Trying to make his way in through the escape tunnels, Sir!”

Olivier and Miles headed that way immediately. They were joined by Echo and Charlie squads. Bravo and Delta could be heard coming from the other direction. Their intense training had paid off. There was no trace of the chaos that had so angered Olivier during the previous fall’s attack.

“Here, Sir!” They followed a soldier’s voice down the hall to where he was holding a Drachman soldier at gunpoint.

“Good work, Lieutenant.” Olivier regarded the Drachman coldly. “Buccaneer! Help me interrogate this man.” Buccaneer hastened forward a dark smile on his face. “Miles! Lead a search of the fort. Look for any associates of his.”

“Yes, Sir!” Miles mobilized the rest of the soldiers in an efficient search pattern as Buccaneer dragged the Drachman toward the cells. When it was determined the captured Drachman had been alone he silenced the alarm and made his way down to the cells, trying to push away a dark sense of foreboding that had come over him.

He heard Olivier speaking as he approached, “Drachma trains their spies well, at the very least.”

“Yes, Sir.” He heard Buccaneer agree. “Do you want me to dispose of the body?”

Miles’ stomach dropped.

“No.” Olivier replied. “I will.”

“Sir-” Buccaneer protested. Miles pushed open the door to prison complex and surveyed the scene. Olivier and Buccaneer were standing over the slumped body of the Drachman spy. Both were covered in blood, though it was nothing compared to the man on the ground. They turned to face him, both looking grim.

“He was already injured.” Olivier told him, her voice level, her face set and cold. Her eyes, which betrayed her, were filled with guilt and pain.

Miles nodded. “Yes, Sir. I came to tell you he acted alone, though we’re still working on sealing the tunnel.”

“Thank you, Major. Please continue working while Lieutenant Buccaneer and I deal with this.” She indicated the slain Drachman.

“Yes, Sir.” He turned to leave, catching Buccaneer’s eye as he did so. Like Olivier, Buccaneer’s face and eyes were at odds. Feeling nauseous, he returned to the tunnels.

The tunnels were specifically designed to allow small parties of soldiers a means of escape should the fort ever be taken. As such, they were closely guarded secrets. That a Drachman had known of their existence, let alone where to find one, was troubling to say the least.

Miles made his way back to the cells as slowly as he could justify and was relieved when he found only a group of soldiers mopping up. He made his way back up through the fort to Olivier’s office. At first glance, the office seemed deserted, but the door to the strategy room was ajar. Miles pushed it open and peered in cautiously. Olivier was perched on the far end of the table with her back to him. She was wearing thermals and toweling her hair. Steam rolled out of the open door to her private bathroom.

Miles shrugged off his jacket and hoped it was close enough to out of uniform to get by. “Hey, love.” He spoke softly, but she jumped anyway. “Are you alright?” She nodded, but did not answer. Miles crossed the room and took the towel from her hands. Tenderly, he took up the task of drying her hair. “What happened?” He asked after a moment.

“Buccaneer and I were interrogating him.” She was cold and detached as she spoke. “We hit him a few times, but he just laughed. We tried the usual tricks, but he wouldn’t tell us anything.” Her voice was rough and scratchy, and Miles suspected it was from screaming at the spy. “I made a cut on his chest. It should have been barely more than a scratch, but he had an older wound. He bled out in minutes.” She snorted. “All that blood, and he didn’t tell us a thing.”

Miles stopped toweling, and pushed her hair out of her face, cupping it gently. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“That was hardly my first kill, Miles.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ll be fine.”

“Torturing someone to death is a far cry from killing on the battlefield.”

“Tch. I beheaded my last adjutant, remember? That was far gorier.”

“That was self-defense.” Miles, unconvinced, crossed his arms and stared down at her.

“This was defense of my country.” She countered. She stared stubbornly back at him.

“What demons I have will remain, no matter what I do.” Her defenses were beginning to crack. “What do a few more matter?”

Miles wrapped his arms around her. She slipped off the table and returned his embrace, burying her face in his shoulder. Her body shuddered, but no tears dampened his shirt. The carefree woman who had laughed so much only a few weeks before was gone again, perhaps for good. He tightened his grip on her, burying his own face in her still-damp hair.

“I love you.” He murmured in Ishvalan. “I always will.” It was something his father used to say whenever his children needed comfort. He didn’t know what else to do, so he held Olivier and repeated those words over and over. He didn’t know how long they stood there, but it was too long.

“General Armstrong, are you-?” Buccaneer’s voice interrupted them suddenly.

They sprang apart, but it was too late. Buccaneer was frozen, wide-eyed, at the door. One hand was still up where he had intended to knock and had jarred the door open instead.

“Indisposed, Lieutenant? Yes.” Olivier muttered darkly, sparkles twinkling above her.

“You’re married, Major.” Buccaneer, perhaps bravely, perhaps foolishly, was ignoring Olivier and glaring at Miles.

“Yes, he is.” Olivier sounded more frustrated than anything. “Incidentally, Miles, did you ever ask Buccaneer why he lost his arm?”

“What?” Miles didn’t feel this was an appropriate time for that conversation. “No, I didn’t.”

“I lost it in a fight with my brother-in-law, Colonel Morgan.” Buccaneer informed him, clenching his spike-covered automail fist menacingly. “After I caught him with a woman who wasn’t my sister. You could say I have a problem with men who are unfaithful.”

Miles swallowed, nervously glancing at Olivier who sighed. “Did you, Buccaneer, ever ask Miles his wife’s name?”

“Yes.” Buccaneer was watching Miles like a bear with its eye on a fish. He took a step forward, and Miles took a casual (he hoped) step backwards. “Her name’s Mira, isn’t it, Major?”

Olivier let out a short, harsh, laugh. “My name, you imbecile, is Olivier _Mira_ Armstrong.” There was a lengthy pause while both men stared at her, Buccaneer's mouth hanging open comically. “If you’re so concerned about Miles’ wife I suggest you stand down before she feels the need to kill two men in one day.”

Looking both confused and relieved Buccaneer lowered his fist, snapping his mouth shut. He swallowed. “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t realize.”

“Of course you didn’t! That was the point.” She glared at him. “If you value your life, you’ll see to it that you don’t so much as hint at this secret to anyone. Ever. If I find you are in any way seeking to harm Miles or myself with this information you will lose a lot more than your arm. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, Sir!” Buccaneer snapped to attention, saluting. “I’m sorry to have intruded, Sir. I’ll be going now, if I may.”

“You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.” Olivier saluted him back, glaring the whole time. As Buccaneer hastily departed, Miles retrieved the abandoned towel and returned to drying Olivier’s hair as leaving it wet in a Briggs’ winter was sure to bring illness.

\---

Olivier was on the phone, again. She was being shuffled back and forth between Northern and Central Commands. Once, due to a switchboard shuffle of epic proportions, she had even been put through to a Colonel Mustang out East. She had thrown the phone down with such force Miles was sure it would break. Neither Central or North City was particularly inclined to give her the resources she was demanding and she was growing angrier with each transfer.

“Do you _want_ this fort to fall, Sir?” She snarled at the general on the other end of the line. “No, don’t transfer me! General-” She shook the receiver in the air, enraged.

Miles rather thought she could have waited until the next day before wading into the bureaucratic mess of High Command. She had ignored his suggestion and charged right in.

“General!” Another general had finally been connected to her, “I need-Oh. _Blackburn_.” She snarled. “Transfer me to someone else. Anyone else.”

Curious, Miles picked up the headset on his desk and put it on. He wouldn’t be able to communicate with Blackburn, but he could listen.

“Oh, come now.” Blackburn said silkily, “is that any way to speak to your superior?”

“No, Sir.” Olivier clenched her fists and glared at her desk as though it were responsible.

“I hear you had a little spy problem.”

“We did.”

“You did, what?” Blackburn sounded amused.

“We did, _Sir_.” Olivier packed as much hate as she could into the word.

“And what do you need to take care of it?”

“More manpower, Sir. Also, a proper investigation into anyone who had knowledge of the tunnels. That includes you, Sir.” Across the room, Miles gave her an encouraging smile. She ignored him.

“I’ll see what I can do. But, I need your help with a problem of my own first.” Miles could picture Blackburn’s leering smirk. His skin crawled. There was a long moment while Olivier considered. She gestured for Miles to take off his headset. He did, nervously.

“What do you want?” She tapped her fingers on her desk. “Sir.” Blackburn had obviously corrected her again. She listened for a few long minutes, and Miles wondered how much trouble he would get in if he put his headset back on. “Fine. Goodbye, Sir.” She hung up before Blackburn had the opportunity to say anything else.

“What did he want, Sir?”

“He’s investigating what he believes is a connected leak in North City right now. He wants me to come down and help, undercover, at an event he’s organizing to flush their spy out.”

“What kind of event, Sir?”

“A party.” She sneered. “I’ve always said any means necessary, but I never expected it to include a _dress_.”

Miles ducked his head to hide his grin. “Can I come, Sir?” He remembered who responsible for the party, and his grin faded. Still, Olivier in a dress was a sight he had to see.

“Only if you wear the dress, Major.” She glared at him. “Blackburn is sending one, because and I quote, ‘you’ll pick something more suited to a funeral than a party’.” She snorted angrily. Privately, Miles rather thought Blackburn had a point. “Anyway,” she was suddenly very interested in a piece of paper on her desk, “he doesn’t think anyone from North City will know who I am. He expects me to, uh, flirt with some possible suspects.”

Miles stared. “Has he ever met you, Sir? No offense, but you’re a terrible candidate for a honey pot.”

“Honey pot?" Her brows rose. "I’m not familiar with that term.”

“Oh. It’s a spy novel thing, I guess. It just means a female spy who uses romance to get information.”

Olivier snorted. “If any of them so much as look at me sideways, I’ll kick their teeth in.” She picked up a pen and started to write something on the paper she had been fiddling with. “Wait. You read spy novels?”

“I read everything, Sir.” Miles flushed.

“Hmm.” She made a noncommittal noise. “And you’re not worried?”

“About what, Sir?”

“The whole -” she cleared her throat, “‘honey pot’ situation?” She looked around as though she expected to see soldiers eavesdropping everywhere.

He chuckled. “Honestly, Sir, I’m afraid for any man foolish enough to try flirting with you.” He eyed her cautiously. “Besides, I don’t think you know how.”

She looked offended for a half-second and then smirked. “I’ll just copy my sisters.” She picked up her papers and fluttered them like a fan. “Tee-hee. You’re so handsome. I just want to squish you. Tee-hee.” She batted her eyelashes forcefully.

“Do you have something in your eye, Sir?” He smirked, enjoying the sudden levity.

“I actually think I do now.” She scowled. “No, wait, that’s just the stupidity in the room.” She sighed and glanced at her desk clock. “It’s late, Miles. I think we should retire.”

Miles nodded. “Since there was an intruder just earlier, perhaps I should walk you to your quarters, Sir. Just in case?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I can protect myself.”

“I would feel better, Sir, if you would allow me.” Olivier was acting normal, but he was sure it was an act. He didn’t want to leave her alone any longer than he had to, and he was afraid she would stay up all night, alone in the office, if he left her there.

“If you insist, then.” She shrugged. “Come on, Major.” She led the way, and he marched behind her as he always did.

“Goodnight, Sir.” At her door, Miles turned to leave.

“Wait.” Olivier checked that the hall was as empty as it appeared. “I know you’re worried about me, which is unnecessary, but if it would make you feel better, you can stay.” Her face and voice were calm and confident, but her eyes were quickly gathering the pain and guilt from before.

“Of course.” Miles followed her into her quarters. “I think we can rely on Buccaneer to cover for me with our hall mates.”

He had never, not even after their wedding, been in her quarters before. They were the same sterile grey of his own barracks. Everything was precisely laid out, from her 45 degree hospital corners to the uniforms hanging exactly two inches apart in her locker. The only difference between her barrack and his was where Buccaneer’s bunk (and collection of automail posters) was set, she had a simple desk and chair.

She hung her up her coat and jacket almost mechanically, and as Miles followed suit, sank onto her bunk. “You believe me, don’t you?” She was unlacing her boots with a slight frown.

“What?” He sat beside her.

“It was an accident.” She kicked her boot off, and started on the other one. “I am many things, but I’m not a murderer.” She placed her boots under her bed, and turned to him, brows furrowed. “Am I?”

Miles took her hands, which were cold, and shook his head. “You had no way of knowing, my love. Honestly, that’s probably why they sent him. They knew he wouldn’t survive an interrogation. You did the best you could.”

She nodded. “I know. It makes sense. Rationally.”

“Emotions are so much harder, though, aren’t they?” He released her hands and put his arms around her.

“I _hate_ emotions.” She told him, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

He couldn’t help it, he chuckled. “I know.”

-

Briggs’ bunks were small enough, Miles thought ruefully, without trying to squish two people into one. His back was pressed against the icy cold wall, and Olivier, beside him, was on the verge of falling off. To make matters worse, she kept twitching fitfully and kicking him.

“Can you sleep?” He asked after a particularly painful kick to his shin.

“No.” She sighed. “Can you?”

He shook his head. An idea struck him. He started to hum, and then sing. It was an Ishvalan lullaby that he had loved as a child. Olivier started to protest, but he shushed her. He fumbled a bit to remember the words that accompanied the lilting tune. It was a nonsensical tale about a brave little mouse who travelled the world. He had always had difficulty remembering whether the mouse climbed a mountain of glass or crossed the sea in a paper boat first.

Nevertheless, he could feel Olivier relaxing as he sang very, very, quietly. All the excuses in the world would not matter if the men heard lullabies coming from their general’s quarters. At last, he got to the last verse where the mouse tricked a cat into letting him go by convincing him he was a tiger.

“That’s what you are, my love.” He murmured when he finished. “The bravest little mouse. But, you have the whole world fooled.” He sighed, “Ishvala help us if they ever realize you’re not a tiger.”

Olivier made a noise that might have been a response, or might have been a snore. He didn’t know which.

_“You can’t be serious, Father.” Miles rolled his eyes. “I’m not singing that stupid lullaby.”_

_“Miles, please.” Father shook his head, tiredly, reaching to touch Miles’ shoulder. He stopped and regarded the metal dust coating his hands, buried deep under his fingernails. “You know Trista won’t sleep without it.”_

_“So you sing it.” He crossed his arms angrily._

_“Flor-”_

_“I won’t sing that stupid song, Father!”_

_Father sighed and made his way to Trista’s bedside. He began to sing quietly, but after a minute, was seized by a violent coughing fit. The coughing turned to pained wheezing, and Miles heard Elle slip from her bunk and run down the hall to pour a glass of water. As Father drank Trista began to cry, and Miles resigned himself to singing her to sleep._

_After she was asleep, he went to speak to Father, who was slumped at the kitchen table. “You’re not getting better, are you?” It was an accusation, more than a question._

_He chuckled, wryly. “What gave it away?”_

_“You’re spending too much time in the factory.”_

_“What can I do, Miles?” He sighed. “I need the work.”_

_“You need to talk to your supervisor, the conditions aren’t safe.”_

_Father laughed, cold and pained, at that. “What will he do, do you think? For every half-Ishvalan like me, with big ideas, there’s another five desperate Ishvalans or Xingese immigrants, willing to do the work for less pay.”_

_“There has to be another way.”_

_“Your mother is already working nights at the hospital-”_

_“I can drop out of school and come work at the factory.”_

_“No!” The exclaim was so sudden, so harsh, Miles jumped. Father gripped his arm, firmly. “Listen, son, you are absolutely not to drop out of school. And you are never to set foot in the factory. Any factory, ever. Do you understand me, Florentino?”_

_“Y-Yes, Father.” He drew a steadying breath. “But, why?”_

_“You’re smart, like your grandfather. You can do so much better than me, if you work hard.”_

_“What am I supposed to do?”_

_“Your mother and I have been talking.” Father rose and drew an envelope from a kitchen drawer, holding it out to Miles who took it, uncertainly._

_“What is this?” He opened it, revealing a blank form with the green emblem of the Amestris Dragon on it._

_“It’s an application for the Military Academy.”_

_“I don’t want-”_

_“Miles, son, this is your best chance.”_

_“I don’t want to kill people, Father.” He dropped the application onto the table as suddenly as though it had burned him._

_“I know.” Father quietly returned the application to its envelope, absently starting to hum the lullaby. Once more, he began to cough violently. Miles reached over to steady him, and blood spattered on his arm. He watched the blood run down his arm, spilling onto the floor, pooling--he was drowning._

Miles jerked awake, smacking his head against the wall and nearly jostling Olivier off the bunk. “Sorry, Liv.” He muttered as she made a noise of sleepy protest. He laid back down, nestling his face into her hair, and banishing the memory turned-nightmare.

-

Olivier was kind enough not to use her feet to wake him, choosing instead to yank the covers off in one go the next morning. She was already dressed.

“What time is it?” Miles asked, yawning, as he began to ponytail his hair.

“Four thirty.” Olivier grimaced. “You need to go back to your barrack and then come to the office. I didn’t want any of the men to catch you.”

“Fair enough.” He pulled on his coat, and reached for his gloves. “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough.” She studied him for a moment. “Did you-” she cleared her throat, “did you call me a mouse?”

“I did.” He chuckled.

She scowled. “I am not a mouse.”

“If you say so.” He glanced around to make sure he had everything and sighed. He leaned over to kiss her still-scowling face. “I’ll see you soon.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Thoughts?
> 
> I'm trying to strike the balance between making Miles' family cardboard, and making it attack of the OCs. How am I doing, so far?


	11. The Dress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is mostly on the lighter side, with one more serious conversation for which I would like to include this warning: There is a brief mention of past suicide. 
> 
> If that is uncomfortable, or triggering, for you please bypass this chapter. Thank you.

Buccaneer was avoiding eye contact. Miles checked over his uniform and debated whether he should leave for the office early.

“Look, Sir.” Buccaneer spoke suddenly. “I’m sorry I made those assumptions about you and the Queen.” Miles turned to him, brows raised. “I just thought-” Buccaneer shook his head. “You’re a good man, Miles.”

“Thank you.” He offered his friend a small smile.

Buccaneer hesitated, then spoke. “Here’s what I don’t get, how on earth did _you_ , of all people, convince Armstrong to marry you?”

Miles scowled. “What, if I were Amestrian-?”

Mp

“Ah.” Miles shrugged. “I guess you just don’t know her like I do.” Buccaneer pulled a face, and he chuckled. “Besides, _she_ convinced _me_.”

Buccaneer opened and shut his mouth, in shock, several times, before he simply moved on. “I told the men you were working late on this intruder thing. I hope that’s alright.”

He nodded. “She got Blackburn’s help.”

“ _Blackburn?!_ ”

“Yes. It’s not without price, I’ll tell you that.”

“Surprise.” Buccaneer growled. “What’s that-” Miles coughed delicately, and he changed course, “ _superior officer_ want?”

“A honey pot.” Miles let a smirk steal across his lips. Buccaneer didn’t read much, but he watched all the latest plays in North City, and occasionally went to the pictures. He would get it better than Olivier had.

“Has he met her?!” Buccaneer guffawed.

“That’s what I said.” Miles chuckled. “She’s already threatened to kick teeth in.” He laughed along with Buccaneer. “Blackburn is sending a dress.”

“A _dress_!” Buccaneer howled with laughter. “The queen must be furious.”

“She is. Speaking of which, I have to report for duty. I advise you do the same.” Buccaneer was still laughing as they made their way to their respective posts. Miles was fairly sure he heard him mutter “a dress!” before doubling over with a fresh wave of laughter.

-

News spread through the fort like fire in a dry wood. By midday the whole fort was snickering behind their queen’s back. Miles shook his head, ruefully, as Olivier exploded at a group of Lieutenants whose mouths twitched even as they saluted her.

“Rooftop duty for a week, Sir?” Miles asked as the men scrambled away. “That seems harsh.” In the winter they divided the work amongst as many units as possible due to the extreme conditions.

“Do you want two?” She snarled, sparkling ferociously.

“No, Sir.” Miles regretted speaking. “Sorry, Sir.”

“Whatever.” She turned and continued stomping toward the mess. “Buccaneer!” The lieutenant had turned the corner ahead of them.

“Yes, Sir?” Buccaneer saluted cheerfully.

“I trust you’re responsible for these rumors.” If looks could kill Buccaneer would be six feet under.

“Yes, Sir!” Buccaneer grinned. “I thought it would be good to distract from the fact no one saw the Major last night.” In Karley’s absence, Buccaneer had taken over as unofficial head of Briggs’ gossip ring.

Olivier snarled. She was between a rock and a hard place. “Couldn’t you at least have used something else? Like the new doctor.”

“The new doctor?” Buccaneer looked surprised. “I haven’t heard that one. How’s it go?”

“Tch.” Olivier rolled her eyes. “I’m not the only woman in this fort anymore. I figured you would be all over that.” At Buccaneer’s wide eyes, she smirked. “Have fun with that. Once you’re done scraping all the icicles on this floor, that is.” She set off. Miles followed, giving the still-gaping Buccaneer a sympathetic glance.

They got into the grub line behind a group of Sergeants. When the fort was full to capacity it could hold three times the number of soldiers that now staffed it. Scoffing at the inefficiency, Olivier had shut down the separate officer’s mess and all the Briggs Bears dined together. Though she could have easily jumped the line, Olivier never regarded herself as better than those she outranked. It was one of the many reasons her men so respected her.

“Sir?” A particularly brave sergeant turned to face her.

Olivier raised her eyebrows and studied him. “Yes?” Her voice was calm but she tapped her fingers on the hilt of her sword, warning him to be wary.

“This probably isn’t my place-” He stumbled slightly as Olivier’s face agreed with him. “But, is it true you made a deal with General Blackburn?” He swallowed nervously, and held himself like he was expecting to be hit.

Olivier stared him down for a long minute. “What’s your name, soldier?”

“Roach, Sir!”

“You’re a brave one.” Olivier was still studying the man. “What do you know of General Blackburn, Sergeant?”

“I was in Central before Briggs, Sir! General Blackburn-” he swallowed, “has a certain reputation, Sir.” The other sergeants were backing away slowly.

“And?”

“W-Well, Sir, I wouldn’t dare presume to-”

“Spit it out.”

“Please watch your back, Sir.” Roach’s knees were trembling. “I apologize for my presumptuous boldness, Sir!”

“Hmm.” She frowned at him, contemplatively. “What’s your post?”

“I work in supplies, Sir.”

“Not anymore. Miles!”

“Yes, Sir!” He stepped forward, regarding the sergeant.

“Inform Lieutenant Buccaneer Echo Squad has a new member. He begins training immediately.”

“Thank you, Sir!” Roach was awestruck. The Mountain Guard was the most famous, and highly regarded, assignment at Briggs.

Olivier shrugged dismissively. “Immediately means immediately, Sergeant.”

Miles cringed, realizing neither of them would get lunch. “Come on, Roach. I’ll take you to your new squad leader.” Both men saluted Olivier and turned to leave.

“One more thing,” they turned back to face Olivier. “Yes.” She didn’t need to clarify, they knew what she meant.

-

Miles’ stomach was grumbling when he made his way back to the office. Buccaneer had grumbled good-naturedly about his new squad member;“I get icicle duty, and you get a promotion? How’s that fair?” But was otherwise welcoming enough to the overwhelmed sergeant. Nevertheless, Miles had not had time to swing back by the mess. Olivier was reading a scout’s report with a frown, and he decided not to interrupt her. He was surprised to see, where he expected a stack of paperwork, a plate of food.

“If you were anyone else, I’d let you starve.” Olivier remarked drily, not looking up from her report.

“Thank you.” He set to devouring the food, gratefully.

“What does Buccaneer think of his new sergeant?” She was still reading, her brow furrowed.

Miles swallowed quickly. “He hasn’t formed an opinion yet, Sir.” She nodded. “If I may, Sir, why did you put him onto the doctor like that? Surely she deserves some respect.”

“You should know I pay no favors to those who have not earned them. Regardless of gender.” She looked up from her report to glare at him. “I payed my dues. So can she.” Miles nodded apologetically, but she continued. “Do you think they gave me respect at the academy? Or in the West when I was the first female posted there? Back in Central, do you think they respect me?” Miles shook his head, sensing it was rhetorical question. “I carved the path that made it possible for women like that doctor to survive the academy, let alone actual duty.”

He probably shouldn’t have, but he asked anyway. “Weren’t you the third woman to attend the academy?”

She glared more fiercely. “I was the first to graduate. There were two before me, yes. Platten and Demoya.” She leaned back in her chair and surveyed him. “Do you know what happened to them?”

“No, Sir.” He had a feeling he was about to find out.

“Platten quit. Didn’t make it past her first year.” Olivier’s tone made no secret of her disdain for the woman. “Demoya committed suicide her second year.” She sounded angry, but Miles knew her well enough to sense her sadness. “The military took those women, chewed them up, and spit them out."

Miles remained silent. It was not often Olivier spoke of her early days in the military, with good reason, he knew.

“Blackburn is a horrible man, that’s true, but he is merely a symptom of a much larger problem. He isn’t even the worst I encountered at the academy. Or after.” She was growing quieter, rage losing out to a kind of fragile pain. She was unnervingly human in moments like these, a far cry from the warrior she normally presented. She seemed, he thought sadly, almost breakable. “Did I ever tell you I was arrested for trying to enlist?”

“I didn’t realize it was illegal then.” Miles was surprised.

“It wasn’t.” She snorted. “My father was still a general back then. The recruiter didn’t want to cross him, and tried to tell me off. I resisted and they dragged me out in handcuffs. My parents locked me in my room, but I snuck out. I’ll tell you it didn’t get any less humiliating the second, third, or even fifth time they did it.” Miles had to admire her guts, even at a young age. “Finally, my father asked them to hold me overnight. My birthday is in winter, so the cell was like a tiny Briggs. They were so sure I would give up. I didn’t.” She picked up her mug of coffee and took a gulp, staring into it thoughtfully. Miles waited patiently for her to go on. “It was a huge scandal. I was supposed to be having a debutante ball that night, so small mercies, I guess.”

She tapped her fingers on the mug. “When I did finally make it into the Academy, everyone was so determined to make me drop out. It was like having the whole world watching, waiting for me to make a mistake. They tried to beat me down in any way they could. That’s why Blackburn was so easy for me to deal with. There’s nothing he can do to me that I haven’t already experienced.”

Miles longed to go to her, to gather her in his arms, and soothe away all her pain. It was hard to imagine Olivier so young and vulnerable, though she seemed vulnerable in that moment. His heart ached. But there they were, separated by a wall of blue; A general and her adjutant. He remained at his desk, and she at hers. They passed several minutes in silence, before Olivier picked up her report and returned to it. When she next looked up, her icy mask was back in place and she was as formidable as ever.

\---

All too soon, the day of Blackburn’s party arrived. Olivier stormed around the fort in a rage, procrastinating getting ready. Miles finally coaxed her back into the office, where the hated dress was hanging.

“Just look at it!” She gestured angrily at the midnight blue silk gown.

Miles studied it, there seemed to be entirely too much and not enough fabric in all the wrong places. “Are you sure you hung this right?” He asked, after a moment.

“No.” She stated bluntly. “I haven’t worn a dress in nearly twenty years.”

“How are you going to get it on?” He would be no help, that was for sure. Dresses were as perplexing to him as the Fort itself was to new recruits.

“I’ve arranged for the doctor to come and help me. Granted, she told me she hasn’t worn a dress in about as long.”

Miles nodded. “Good luck to you, both.” There was a rap on the door. “I take it that’s her now.”

“Hello, Sir.” The doctor looked about as happy as Olivier. “I’ve brought my surgical kit. We can sew it on if it comes to it.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then.” He gave Olivier a brief salute and stepped outside, positioning himself in front of the door.

The hall, which was normally quiet, was practically buzzing with activity. Soldiers were constantly running by “on their way somewhere, quickest shortcut, don’t ya know?”, and nearly everyone needed to see the general.

Dismissing a disappointed looking sergeant with a report for Olivier, Miles shook his head. He was as curious as anyone, but he at least had the decency to pretend. Buccaneer sauntered down the hall toward him with a wide grin.

“Hello, Sir!” He saluted, casually. “Mind if I stand with you?”

“No excuse. Just want to see the queen off.”

The door behind them flew open and the doctor came out, looking flustered. “She’s dressed, Sir. But,” she ran her fingers through her short spiky locks, “you’re on your own for hair.”

“Thank you.” Miles knocked gently on the open door. “May we enter, Sir?”

“Fine.” Olivier’s voice emanated from the corner just out of sight. Miles and Buccaneer entered, curiously. She was standing in the corner, arms crossed and head ducked. Behind her veil of hair they could make out an angry scowl.

The gown was fitted through her torso and flared gently at her hips. Above the sweetheart neckline, a high lace collar attached to cap sleeves. Miles’ breath caught in his throat. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on, scowl and all. Beside him, Buccaneer’s jaw had become unhinged.

“Stop staring.” Olivier snarled. “I already know I look like an idiot.”

Buccaneer rehinged his jaw and looked away, respectfully. Miles took a step towards her. “You look amazing.”

“Shut up.” She shook her hair out of her face, and glared up at him.

“You do.” He told her, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the door was shut. “Give us a spin?”

“No.” She colored slightly.

“Why not?”

Buccaneer was now looking anywhere but at the couple, face reddening.

“I don’t want to.” She hissed through gritted teeth. “I’m not leaving this corner.”

Miles smirked, slightly. “Does it have a bow?”

“No. Leave me alone.”

“Blackburn will be here to pick you up, any minute. You’ll have to leave that corner.” He took her hands, gently. “Come on.”

“No.” She planted her feet and refused to move. Buccaneer had shuffled toward the door, looking like he wanted to run for it.

“Fine.” Miles slipped his arms around her. “I’ll carry you. Oh!” He started as his hands connected with bare skin. “Is that why you won’t leave?”

“I don’t know why low backs are in fashion!” She snarled. “I don’t want anyone looking at me!” Miles spun her around, gently, and surveyed the back, or lack thereof, of her gown. The cutout was indeed fashionably low, ending just below her waist.

“It’s not so bad, love.” He told her gently.

“I’ve seen much lower in the City.” Buccaneer offered, helpfully, from his corner.

“Stop looking at me, Lieutenant!” Olivier snarled, reaching for her sword. Buccaneer turned away, even redder than he had been before.

“Why don’t you go see if Blackburn’s here?” Miles suggested, pushing Olivier’s sword away.

“Yes, Sir!” Buccaneer practically ran from the room, slamming the door behind him.

Miles pulled off his goggles and coat, laying them over the desk. “Here, love.” He spun her again, and wrapped his arms around her. “It’s going to be alright.”

“I hate him!” Olivier was trembling with rage. “He’s humiliating me!”

“I know.” He soothed, rubbing her back gently. “It’s just one night, you can do this.”

“I know I can.” She bristled.

“Good.” He kissed the top of her head. “Let’s finish getting you ready.” They decided to leave her hair long, letting it cover the offensive cutout. Miles pulled the heels Blackburn had sent with the dress from their box and knelt before Olivier.

“I can’t wear those.”

“Yes, you can.” Miles sighed. “Give me your foot.”

“I can’t walk in those death traps.”

“Just give me your foot, Liv.” She complied angrily, and he pulled off her double layers of wool socks, slipping the heel on her foot gently. “Okay, other foot.” She wobbled as she held out her other foot. He repeated the process and stood up. “Last thing.” He grabbed a white fur stole and draped it over her shoulders. “Ready?”

“No.” She snorted.

“Alright, let’s go.” He gestured for her to lead the way. She took an uncertain step forward, wobbling with all the grace and coordination of a newborn deer.

“I told you, I can’t do this.” She grabbed her desk for support.

“You’re going to have to.” Miles sighed. “Do you want to take my arm?”

She shook her head and took another stubborn step forward. Miles donned his glasses and coat, watching her slow, shaky, journey across the room. At last they made it out of the office and down the hall.

“Hello, Sir!” Buccaneer called from the base of the first stairwell. “Blackburn’s truck just arrived at the gates.”

Olivier was too focused on the stairs to reply. “Ah!” She cried out as her foot slid on an icy patch. She grabbed at an unfortunate lieutenant who had been climbing the stairs. Unbalanced by her sudden weight, the lieutenant toppled. There was a moment where time seemed to stand still as Miles reached for Olivier and was forced to watch her tumble down the steps. The duo landed with a painful sounding thud.

“Are you alright, Sir?!” Miles and Buccaneer rushed towards her, careful to avoid a similar fate.

“I’m fine.” Her voice was muffled by the floor. She pushed herself up, off the lieutenant. “Henschel, here, broke my fall.”

Henschel gave a moan of pain, clutching his ribs. “My pleasure, Sir.”

Olivier tried to stand, but the treacherous heels slipped under her feet. She crumpled on top of Henschel, who made a sound like a trod-on puppy. Laughing much harder than was wise, Buccaneer gripped the general under her arms, and lifted her as easily as a child.

“Here you are, Sir.” He placed her firmly on her feet, still laughing at her angry glare.

Olivier allowed Miles to help her the rest of the way down to the front gate where Blackburn was waiting.

“There you are.” Blackburn smiled coldly. Olivier and Miles both saluted, stiffly. Blackburn took his time returning their salutes, eyeing Olivier with a lecherous smile. “You look ravishing, my dear.”

Olivier looked like she was going to vomit, or punch him out. “Sorry I can’t say the same, Sir.”

Blackburn just laughed. “You always were a saucy one. You’re going to have to reel that in tonight, though.” His dark eyes glittered with malice. “Have a good evening, Major.” He smirked at Miles, whose blood boiled. “Don’t wait up, she’ll be back late.”

Miles trembled with rage as Blackburn put his arm around Olivier, who threatened to snap his fingers, and guided her to the waiting truck. He watched it drive all the way down the mountain road. Olivier didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! 
> 
> In case I wasn't the only one who initially didn't realize this, Liam Roach is the Briggs Soldier who told Winry to take out her earrings before setting off with Scar. He was never given a name in the manga, so the producers named him for the anime.


	12. Pandora

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Thanks for sticking with me. Happy reading! 
> 
>  
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Another mention of the suicide from the previous chapter, _very_ brief mention of child abuse, and gender-based violence. All non-graphic and in keeping with the "T" rating. As before, if this is uncomfortable or triggering, please bypass this chapter! Thanks!

Miles stormed around the fort, not concealing his rage as he searched for Buccaneer. He was in the mood for a sparring match and Buccaneer was one of only a few he considered worthy opponents. Buccaneer had disappeared. In fact, Miles couldn’t find a single member of Echo.

Suspicious, he took off for the unused storage rooms at the far end of the fort. The fort was nowhere near capacity and the storage rooms were effectively abandoned, making them prime places to meet discreetly. Olivier was extremely lax about what her soldiers did off duty, so long as it didn’t affect their performance or the integrity of the fort. Miles was aware of several illegal betting rings, a longstanding poker game, and the copious amounts of contraband consumed at all of these events. He normally turned a blind eye, but he was determined to get to the bottom of Echo’s odd behavior.

The low murmur of voices confirmed his suspicions about their location. He crept towards a store room which had light coming through the crack under the door. There was an odd crackling sound, like a radio.

“Anyway,” a voice was saying behind the door, “I thought that was a pretty dumb idea.”

“Hey, hey,” another voice interjected, laughing, “it was brilliant.” He froze. The second voice sounded a lot like-

“Karley! You idiot!” Buccaneer roared with laughter.

Miles pushed the door open. “What is going on here?!” He demanded, darkly. The entirety of Echo Squad was squished into the small room, perched on empty crates and barrels, circled around a radio set and microphone. They all stared at him, blankly.

“Woah.” Karley’s voice came through the radio. “Was that the Major?” Trance broken, Echo Squad leapt to their feet and saluted, knocking over their various seats, and each other, in their haste.

“Yes.” Miles marched in and leaned over the microphone. “Do you want to tell me what’s going on?” Around him Echo was frozen with their hands still up. He didn’t care.

“Yes, Sir.” Karley sounded nervous even over the radio. “Before I left, I set up this radio station. All the equipment was decommissioned or purchased myself, so it’s not wasting military resources, Sir! I radio in periodically and we keep each other updated. I swear that’s all. Normally.”

“Normally?” Miles growled.

“I’m doing recon on the General’s party, Sir.” Karley sounded terrified now. “Since the Ice Queen is coming they asked me to loop them in.”

Straightening, he surveyed the men around him, considering. He saluted them, slowly. Hesitantly, the men sat back down, righting their seats, and pulling a particularly unfortunate sergeant off the floor. 

“Well, Sir?” Buccaneer asked finally.

Miles couldn’t believe what he was saying, but he sighed. “Budge over, Lieutenant.” Echo Squad cheered, and Buccaneer clapped him on the back, giving up his seat of honor on the only real chair in the room.

“Avia, Warwick, meet Major Miles!” Karley was back to his usual cheerful self.

“Sir.”

“Yo.” Two unfamiliar voices crackled over the radio.

“Sergeant Avia and Warrant Officer Warwick are part of our recon team.” Karley explained. “They’re helping me man the radios. I already explained this to Echo, but I’ll fill you in, Sir. You’re looped in separately from the main mission radio. We can communicate with our men on the ground, but you can’t and vice versa. If we need to transmit something on multiple frequencies, but not to you, you’ll hear this-” a soft buzzing emanated from the radio. “Do you have any questions, Sir?”

Miles shook his head, and then remembered Karley couldn’t see him. “No, Sergeant. I see you’ve put a lot of thought into this.”

“Yes, Sir.” Karley wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or not. The men went back to swapping stories and gossip while Miles counted the minutes until Olivier and Blackburn would arrive at the party.

“Time to get to work!” Warwick interrupted a convoluted story about training exercise gone wrong. “They’re here!” The soft buzzing filled the room, and Miles knew the men on the other side were doing their last checks.

“The Ice Queen is entering now.” Karley informed them. He gasped. “What happened to General Armstrong?!”

One of the men (Warwick?) let out a low whistle. “You didn’t say anything about her-”

“Careful.” Miles cut him off in a dangerous tone. “That’s your superior you’re talking about.”

“Sorry, Sir.” Warwick didn’t sound especially sorry.

“What’s happening?” Buccaneer wisely headed off a confrontation.

“Not a lot, Sir.” Karley was noticeably relieved. “General Blackburn is making small talk with the guests. It’s practically the whole base and their dates.”

“Not us.” Avia sounded gloomy. “We’re working.”

“That’s what happens when you throw up on the base commander.” Warwick reminded him. “He doesn’t invite you to the ‘Celebration of North City’s Finest’.”

“It was an accident!” Avia protested. Whatever the story was, Miles didn’t want to hear it.

“General Armstrong’s on the move.” Karley noted. “Wait. Is she hiding?”

“Probably.” Buccaneer chuckled.

“Oh. General Handler stopped her. Why is he even here? He’s retired.”

“Politics.” Several men chorused at once.

“She just walked off in the middle of the conversation!” Warwick sounded somewhere between amused and impressed.

“That’s cold.” Avia commented.

“Why do you think we call her the Ice Queen?” A warrant officer on Miles’ right snickered. Buccaneer shot him a warning look.

“He would have blown her cover.” Karley reminded them. “Not that it matters. She looks like she’s going to punch the next person to talk to her.”

Miles sighed. He was beginning to think he should have just told Echo to pack it up and scrape icicles. Buccaneer gave him a questioning look, which he ignored.

“Looks like we have our first soldier brave enough to ask her to dance!” Karley snickered.

“She’s going to turn him down.” Avia stated, flatly. “Look at her body language.”

“General Blackburn is watching.” Warwick countered. “She has to accept.”

“Sorry, Avia, Warwick’s right.”

“There they go.” Warwick was smug. Miles wanted to punch him.

“Ouch.” Avia sounded sympathetic, though it was not immediately apparent why. “Do you think General Armstrong did that on purpose?”

“Did what?” Buccaneer asked.

At the same time, Karley replied. “Probably.”

“She’s stomping all over his feet.”

“That’s definitely intentional.” Miles informed them, suppressing a smile.

“Sorry, Sirs.” Karley said suddenly. “We’ve got actual work to do. I’ll radio you back when I can.” The now-familiar buzzing filled the room.

Miles rose. “Send someone to get me if there are any pertinent updates. Otherwise, report to me when the party concludes. I have a job for you all.” Ignoring the collective groaning, he left the room.

-

Miles was reading when his door began to rattle, as someone pounded forcefully on it. Setting the book aside, he went to the door. He was of two minds as he reached for the handle. Part of him wanted to return to the book, which had arrived that day. It had been wrapped in plain paper and mailed without a return address, but it had been obvious to him it was a gift from Olivier. The other, more alert, part of him realized he was probably being interrupted for good reason.

“Sir!” It was Roach, breathing heavily and looking frantic. “There’s been an update, come quickly!” Miles took off running, flushed with adrenaline. The door to the store room was wide open and Echo Squad was conferring in frantic whispers. The radio was off.

“What’s happened?” Miles demanded.

“General Armstrong punched a photographer, Sir.” Someone, Miles neither knew nor cared who, ventured.

“And?” Olivier’s volatile temper was legendary. This would not have been enough to garner the reaction he was witnessing.

“Come on, Sir.” Buccaneer pushed through the crowd. “I’ll explain.” Miles wanted to protest, but his friend clapped a hand on his back and herded him down the hall. When they were a sufficient distance from the other men Buccaneer released him. “Blackburn was furious. Karley had just enough time to tell us he dragged her out of there before he had to go dark.”

Miles saw red. He ducked his head and balled his fists; lashing out at his friend would do no good. “Why?” He breathed, at last.

Buccaneer didn’t answer. He knew the question wasn’t really for him. A long moment passed, and then he reached out a hand to his friend’s shoulder. “She’s a tough one, Miles.”

“She’s an idiot.” He ground out, between clenched teeth.

“I doubt it.” Buccaneer was remarkably calm in the face of the Ishvalan’s wrath. “You know, probably better than I, her brain works fast. She’s smart. She wouldn’t do something so drastic without reason.”

Miles knew he was right, but he stubbornly persisted. “She’s going to get herself killed.”

“Maybe.” Buccaneer shrugged. “Probably not today.” The mohawked man studied him for a minute. “You should go calm down. I’ll let you know the minute we hear anything.” Miles nodded. He was being too emotional, and they both knew it.

“Get the rest of your men scraping icicles, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Sir.” Buccaneer drew himself up with a wry grin, saluting briefly before departing.

-

Miles made his way, almost mechanically, to Olivier’s barracks. At the door, he stopped and weighed the key in his hand. He had had it for some time, in case of emergency, but had never used it. Using it felt like an invasion of privacy; he turned it in the lock, anyway. Stepping in and closing the door behind him, he was disappointed by the anticlimactic silence. He had expected a rush of emotion, _something_. Anything would have been preferable to the hollow feeling in his chest.

Flicking on the light, he made his way to her desk and sat down. The surface was completely clear. There were only two drawers. He opened the first, idly, and found pens, pencils, and paper neatly aligned. He shut it again, and opened the second. Inside was a lock box, unlocked. _"Pandora's Box"_ , a traitorous little voice whispered in his ear. Curious, he opened it.

At first, he didn’t know what he was seeing. Set neatly on the stack of assorted papers within was a single lock of blonde hair. It was long and had been twisted into a sort of rope. Miles picked it up, and turned it in his hands; It was definitely Olivier’s. There was something dark black encrusted on it. He rubbed it and as soon as it flaked off onto his gloves he realized what it was. Blood. A wave of nausea overcame him. He dropped the lock onto the desk.

He should have stopped there. Scratch that, he should have stopped long before he opened the box. Ignoring his doubts, Miles plunged his hand back into the box and pulled out a hand-written note. He unfolded it, and a photograph tumbled out into his lap. He read the note without looking at the photo:

_“Enjoy your hair-cut, Cadet.”_

Frowning, he lifted the photo. It was of Olivier, aged eighteen. He almost didn’t recognize her. Her hair had been hacked off unevenly, and blood was running down the side of her face. She was glaring defiantly at the camera, an impressive feat given she was kneeling and hands were pressing on her shoulders, and clutching her hands behind her, keeping her down. Her shorn locks littered the ground around her. His stomach churned.

It was a kind of morbid fascination. Miles pulled out another handful of papers. Academy scorecards. He skimmed through them. Her infractions were few and slight, but she was docked points heavily and the recorded punishments well exceeded what was considered normal and reasonable. Angry, he set those aside and pulled out what had to be the oddest assortment of papers in the box. They were bound together with a length of twine, and were of all shapes, sizes, and materials. In fact, he was sure the top of the stack was a napkin. The words “GO HOME” followed by a derogatory term he didn’t waste time on, were scrawled on it in red ink. With a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, he flipped through the rest of the stack. They were all threats. Some simple, some disturbingly graphic, all aimed at Olivier. Nauseous, he re-tied the twine.

He pulled out a bundle of newspaper clippings and frowned at the randomness of them. One, dated a few years into her time at the academy was about a governess who was arrested after it was revealed she was beating her charge. Miles assumed Olivier knew the girl and moved on. Another was about a man brutally beaten to death by his Ishvalan gardener, and was over a decade older than older than the first. He set that aside and found a photo of smiling young woman under the headline “SCANDAL: FEMALE CADET COMMITS SUICIDE”. Someone had scrawled, “should have been you” over the headline.

He drew a steadying breath, and turned the paper over. Beneath was a much more recent article from the West City Times, the headline read “Search for Missing 12th Infantry Commander Continues” but something else caught Miles’ eye and he reached back into the box without reading the article. There was another photo, not from the academy, stapled to a pre-combat medical evaluation. He picked it up, not sure he wanted to see it. The date scrawled in the corner placed it during her time in the west. He didn’t have to read the report to know she shouldn’t have been cleared to return to combat.

She was gaunt, her cheekbones jutting unnervingly beneath her ashen skin. Her piercing blue eyes, rimmed with deep shadows, were the only indicator he was looking at a living woman, not a corpse. Scars that were now pale lines on her face and arms, were angry red gashes, fresh and, some, even oozing. The report detailed her injuries, noted her much-too-low weight, and expressed concern over broken ribs that had been incorrectly treated. Nevertheless, the bright red stamp at the bottom of her litany of injuries read: **CLEARED**. Tears sprang to his eyes, unbidden. He pulled off his goggles and rubbed his eyes roughly.

He couldn’t go on. Olivier’s box of, well, he didn’t know what she considered it, demons, perhaps, was still more than half full. Being a quarter Ishvalan he understood what it meant to be targeted, but he had never been as _alone_ as she was. She must have been terrified. She never would have shown it, not to anyone, but he could easily envision her lying awake, clutching a knife just as he had, waiting for the next attack. Harder to imagine was the veritable scarecrow of a woman, whose face stared hauntingly up at him, marching out into combat, knowing her superiors _wanted_ her to die. It was a miracle she had survived at all.

He was dimly aware of the hours ticking by. He sat in silence, tears trickling, drying, and starting anew. He heard the door creak open. He could have jumped up and tried to hide the evidence, but he remained still. He had pried this far, he would not lie to her now.

“What are you doing?” Olivier’s voice cut the silence like ice.

Miles turned to her, silently. They took each other in for a moment, Olivier’s eyes searching the desk top and his puffy, tear-stained face. He watched the emotions flickering through her eyes, never once crossing her face: Pain, confusion, betrayal. Her hair and dress were rumpled, and her bare arms were flourishing with bruises. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, revealing she wasn’t wearing shoes.

“I’m sorry.” He whispered.

“What were you looking for?” Her eyes flicked from the desk, to where her sword normally hung above her bunk. Miles was grateful it was still in the office.

“I wasn’t.” He stood and walked toward her, arms hesitantly outstretched. “I was so afraid I was going to lose you.”

She frowned. “So you went through my things?” She shifted again, and shivered, ruining her icy facade.

“I’m sorry.” He touched her arm. “You’re freezing.”

“I know.” She was very pale, and her lips were taking on a blue tinge. She didn’t move, though. Miles grabbed her coat and draped it over her.

“Come on.” He took her hand and led her to her cot. “Sit down.” She did, clutching the coat, and suppressing chattering teeth. He opened her foot locker, and pulled out socks. Olivier took them, but her fingers trembled. Miles took them back. “Here.” He slid them onto her feet, and turned back to find some thermals for her. “What happened?”

“The photographer was the spy.” She was still shivering as Miles helped her into trousers, and set to work figuring out how to undo the doctor’s impressive sewing job. “But I had to prove it. While Blackburn was yelling at me, instead of listening, he made a break for it. We gave chase. I think I lost my shoes in the snow, I don’t know.” Miles gave in, pulled his knife from his boot and began cutting the fabric. “We caught up to him, eventually. Blackburn shot him on the spot, like the idiot he is. I spent the rest of the night defending my realization he was the spy. They still have to develop his photos, but I know he was photographing confidential information.” He finally got her out of the dress and into her pajamas. She leaned on her headboard and curled into herself. “Why were you in my desk?”

Miles took a deep breath and sank down beside her, pulling her feet into his lap, and beginning to rub some semblance of warmth back into them. “I came here to calm down, I was so angry when I heard what happened. I had in my head being here would help. It was stupid, but I didn’t know what you were doing, what he was doing to you. I’m sorry, I was so angry.” He shook his head. “I’m so sorry, Liv. When I saw the box was unlocked, I-”

“I left it unlocked?” She interjected, angry at herself.

“Yes. I still shouldn’t have pried. I’m sorry.” He kept apologizing, without any indicator it would help. “Why? What good can it do to keep that?”

“We all have our burdens, Miles.” She looked him in the eye at last. “You must think me weak.”

“I don’t.” He assured her. He was embarrassed to realize tears were starting to trickle from his eyes, again. He reached up to rub them away, but Olivier touched an icy thumb to his cheek, gently swiping at the tears.

“You didn’t cry like this when you were the one being threatened.” She gave him a tired half-smirk.

“I’m sorry.” He apologized again, flushing. “It’s only because I love you so much.” He gave a weak chuckle, realizing how sappy he sounded.

“No. I’m sorry.” Her voice was a low murmur. “I never should have hidden my past from you. You deserve the truth.”

“You never hid anything from me.” He countered, echoing her soft tone, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close. “You don’t need to tell me anything you don’t want to. It’s okay to hurt.”

Olivier responded by throwing her own arms around him, leaning heavily into his embrace. He held her close until morning came and they were forced to rise and become soldiers once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. 
> 
> Thanks again for reading! 
> 
> Please let me know what you think!


	13. Onward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's chapter is a bit shorter, and quite a bit lighter.

The investigation into the leak technically remained open, but with their only lead (somewhat suspiciously) dead, they were forced to close up the compromised tunnels, tighten security, and move on. Winter melted into spring, bringing the joint training to the forefront of their focus. They ran from sunup to sundown, preparing.

While Olivier fought over phone and telegram with General Grumman, Miles was reordering the Fort to make room for Eastern’s troops. Olivier was grudgingly reopening the Officer’s Mess, and two sealed halls worth of barracks.

“Good grief,” Buccaneer grumbled one day as Echo dusted, swept, and mopped their way through the twelfth floor barracks, “is he bringing all of Eastern Command?!”

“Probably. The General says he’s a real show-off.” Miles leaned on the doorframe, surveying their progress. Loud swearing down the hall diverted their attention.

“Trouble?” Miles stuck his head out to check.

“My mop is frozen to the floor, Sir!” An angry sergeant gave his mop a hard yank and with a mighty ripping sound the handle separated from the head which remained frozen to the ground. He swore again and threw the handle at the wall. “Sorry, Sir.” He gave Miles a sheepish smile, running his fingers through his hair nervously.

Miles arched his eyebrows. “Try pouring hot water on it.”

“Yes, Sir!”

Miles turned back to Buccaneer. “I am surrounded by idiots.”

Buccaneer snorted. “You sound like The Queen.” He turned back to dusting the tops of the lockers, giving an angry shout and coughing when he accidentally dumped dust on his face.

“You’re only proving my point.” Miles smirked. “Besides, there are worse things--I could sound like you.”

“Har, har.” Buccaneer wiped the dust off his face and glared at him. “Aren’t you supposed to be working?”

“I am. I’m supervising.” It didn’t really come as a surprise when Buccaneer lobbed the filthy dust rag at his face. He side-stepped and the rag fell on the freshly-mopped hall floor, sending up a cloud of dust on impact. “Anyone else would have you court-martialed, Lieutenant.”

Buccaneer guffawed. “Yes, Sir.” He emphasized sir, mockingly.

“Aaargh! Who threw a rag on my floor?!” The sergeant had returned with a bucket of hot water. Still chuckling, Miles left Buccaneer to deal with the mess.

\---

“Absolutely not!” Olivier practically screamed into the phone, as Miles returned to the office. “I will not have him in my fort!” There was a pause, and she listened to the man on the other end (General Grumman, Miles assumed), the vein in her forehead popping dangerously. “I don’t care if he’s a State Alchemist! There’s no room for cowardice here!”

Miles deposited his completed checklist on her desk, and grabbed the new one she was working on.

“Don’t bring my father into this!” Miles started, and watched Olivier who was sparkling with rage. “He. Is. Retired.” She ground her teeth so loudly he thought they might break. “His ‘considerable influence’ is the only thing keeping that wuss from court-martial! It does not extend to this fort, though.”

There was another pause, and Olivier’s eyes widened suddenly. “She isn’t welcome here, either!” Miles could hear Grumman’s laughter from his place a few feet from Olivier. “She is a civilian. And seventeen!” She was gripping the hilt of her sword tightly. “Sir, I don’t think you understand-what?” She listened a moment. “Well, yes, she did throw a piano at me, but I don’t see what that has to-” Grumman had plainly interrupted again. “Are you _blackmailing_ me?” Another beat and then “‘creative incentive?! What kind of-?”

She turned to Miles. “He hung up on me!” She threw the phone down and lowered her head to her desk.

“Sir, are you alright?” Miles retrieved the phone and returned it to its cradle. “Who’s not welcome here?”

“I’m fine.” She raised a head a few inches. “Catherine.” She shuddered. “Catherine is not welcome here. Nor Alex, but I suppose that-” she dropped her head and mumbled a string of insults. “-has some capacity-”

“I’m sorry, Sir, I don’t understand.” He frowned at her. “Who’s Catherine?” He was fairly sure Alex was her brother, the Strong-Arm Alchemist.

“My youngest sister.” She pulled herself up, and scowled. “Dear, sweet, little psychopath. She threw a piano at me.”

“A what, Sir?” Twice now he had heard “piano” but he was sure he was mishearing. Maybe she meant “pan” like a frying pan?

“A piano!” She snarled. “Not a child’s piano, not an upright, not even a baby grand, but a whole grand piano! And she threw it right at my head! I almost _died_ , and Mother thought it was hilarious!”

“A piano?” Miles repeated blankly.

“Yes. A. Piano.” Olivier was glaring, murder in her eyes.

“She must be, er, impressive.” Miles was envisioning a giant woman, larger even than Buccaneer. It was an odd image.

“Tch.” Olivier scowled. “Here.” She opened one of her drawers forcefully, and rattled in it. “My family’s portrait.” She thrust a photograph at him.

Miles took it and stared, wide-eyed. Her family was every inch as gigantic as he had been imagining, save for a one petite girl who was clutching a framed portrait of a scowling Olivier. She was seated at the front, while the rest of her family stood, further highlighting her diminutive size. She was flanked on either side by two massive, muscular, women one of whom had to be Catherine. Behind them, Olivier’s mother had her hands on the petite girl’s chair, and each of the men beside her had an arm around her, beaming at the camera. Miles recognized the now-retired General Armstrong immediately, and the other man had to be Major Armstrong. He had no idea which sister was which, though.

“So, which one is Catherine?” He asked after a moment.

“The cute one.” Olivier tapped the petite girl’s face, angrily.

“That’s Catherine?!”

“Don’t tell me you’re taken in by those doe-eyes!” Olivier glared at him. “She’s evil!”

“If you say so, Sir.” Miles couldn’t understand how anyone so small could throw anything even remotely close to the size of a piano. “What does this have to do with joint training, again?”

“General Grumman threatened to send her here in Major Armstrong’s place, if I refused to let him attend. My father was apparently very insistent.” Olivier reminded him strongly of a petulant child as she scowled and crossed her arms.

“Sorry, Sir.” He couldn’t keep the smirk off his face.

“Whatever, Miles. I would have thought you would be more sympathetic.”

“Why, Sir?” He was genuinely surprised.

“You have six brothers and sisters, don’t you? Surely you understand.” It was Olivier’s turn to be surprised.

“Not really, Sir. None of them ever threw a piano at my head.” He smiled gently, and reached into his pocket. “This is my family, if you want to see.” He held out his own photo.

“You carry this with you?” Olivier looked like she wanted to vomit. “That’s so sweet, it makes me sick.”

She took the photo and examined it curiously. It had been taken at his Academy graduation, shortly before his father had died. He was in uniform, his littlest sister on his back. His parents stood beside him, arms around each other; Elle on his other side, stomach already swollen with her first child, arm around her husband. His other siblings flanked them, huddling together at the behest of the photographer. “They look...nice.”

Miles nodded, grinning. “They are. This,” he tapped his oldest sister, “is Elle. And-”

“Miles, the back is labeled.” Olivier had flipped the photo over and was reading the names and ages his mother had so studiously written there.

“Right.” He flushed.

“Twins?” She noted, eyebrows rising.

“Yes. Elle and I are twins.” He didn’t realize he had never mentioned it before. He ran his fingers through his hair, nervously.

Olivier flipped the photo over again, studying it. “They don’t look very Ishvalan.”

“I know.” He gave her a slight frown. “At least not obviously, none of them have red eyes. But look, Elle and I have the same hair. Look at our complexions.” He indicated his siblings who ranged from nearly as pale as Olivier to as tan as he was. “My grandfather’s blood does show a little in almost all.”

“I see your point.” Olivier conceded, handing the photo back. “I apologize. I meant no offense.”

“I know, Sir.” He smiled at her, taking the photo and returning it to his pocket, simultaneously checking the time. “Well, I need to go check the progress in the Officer’s Mess.”

“And I have a shipment of training weapons to inspect.” She sighed, and they both departed.

-

_“Miles?”_

_He looked up from the book he was studying, pulling his pen from his mouth a bit guiltily. He ran through a list of possible needs quickly. “Lunch is on the stove, Father’s medicine is on the table, Mother’s asleep, Elle has Trista-”_

_Ian blinked at him, hands up. “While that’s all helpful information, that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”_

_“Sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair and regarded his brother. It was sometimes easy to forget how close in age they were; Ian was still gangly, his face youthful, his actions moreso. Miles, comparatively, was well-muscled, and acted years ahead of his seventeen. “The Academy entrance exams are next month, I’m just a little distracted. What do you need?”_

_“Grandfather’s coming next week.”_

_He nodded. “Grandmother wanted to see Father, since he’s-” he trailed off when Ian bit his lip. “Anyway, what’s up?”_

_Ian studied him. “You better iron that sash-thing of yours.”_

_“O-Okay?” Miles frowned, puzzled. “I’ll get to that. Thanks for the reminder.” Shaking his head he turned back to his studies._

_“Does he know you’re going to join the military?”_

_“Not yet.” He sighed, fist tensing in frustration. “Is there a point to this, or are you just trying to make sure I’ll fail the entrance exams?”_

_“He’s not going to think you’re so perfect now.”_

_He gave an exasperated huff. “What?” Ian said nothing. “Are you seriously jealous?”_

_“He likes you best.”_

_“How_ old _are you?” Miles rolled his eyes. “At least he never called you a demon half-breed. Grandad adores you, and so does Grandfather, even if he didn’t force you to do Ishvalan summer school. Take the win, brother.”_

_“Did Grandad really call you a demon-” he stopped at the glare his red-eyed brother dealt him. “Right. Sorry.”_

_Miles nodded, reopening his textbook. He paused to give his brother a long look. “You look like him, you know.”_

_He snorted. “You’re as blind as Celia.”_

_“I’m serious. You have mother’s coloring, but go look in a mirror. You have grandfather’s chin and sharp nose. Not to mention those insane eyebrows.” Ian rolled his eyes, but a slight smile played across his face. “Now, go away. I have to study.” He waved a hand at him, chuckling. “Shoo.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, I love and appreciate comments.


	14. Soldiers of the East

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is this? North-East joint training? How...unpredictable. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was a testament to General Grumman’s desire to show off, and perhaps his lack of understanding of the Northern climate, that he chose to march his troops up the Mountain Road to Fort Briggs. The first day of joint training had finally arrived, and the fort was unnervingly still. Miles followed Olivier through her final inspection of the fort, which concluded when the newly-returned Warrant Officer Karley came and informed them that Eastern’s troops were making their way up the mountain.

Standing, at last, on the lowest observation deck Miles watched the soldiers from Eastern make their slow, huffing, way up the mountain. At the base of the mountain, it had probably been an impressive parade. General Grumman was leading the way in a new jeep, decked out with Amestrian flags. The ranks behind him were, to their credit, still straight but they were growing increasingly further spread out, and the soldiers were struggling to keep up with the cadence of a nearly-breathless drill sergeant.

Miles had to suppress a smile as the Briggs Mountain Guard, clad in their characteristic white, slipped from concealment and began to fall in around the startled Easterners, one company at a time. Accustomed to the altitude, they marched readily and flawlessly up the steep incline. Olivier’s ruthless training had truly paid off, and no one could deny it.

“General Armstrong!” General Grumman stood in the back of his jeep and beamed up at them. “Do we have permission to enter your fortress?”

Olivier’s answer was as icy as the air around them. “Permission granted, Sir.” She turned and made her way inside before the massive front gates had even begun to open. Miles followed her, somewhat amused.

“They looked right idiots.” Olivier commented, without looking back, as they made their way down to greet the troops for real.

“Yes, Sir.” He agreed. “Our Mountain Guard did well, though, thanks to your training.”

“They were adequate.” It was as close to a compliment as they would receive for something she considered basic.

“General Grumman!” They entered the main hall, and Olivier regarded the somewhat disjointed troops before her with disdain. “Fort Briggs,” she paused, a disdainful sneer on her lips, “welcomes you.”

“My, General Armstrong, how lovely you look! I dare say the North suits you!” General Grumman was positively jovial, apparently unaware of his troops struggling to breathe behind him. “Why, I remember when you were just a-”

“Sir.” Olivier glared. “That is hardly an appropriate way to greet a fellow soldier.” Without giving him a chance to reply, she whirled toward Buccaneer who was overseeing the gate’s security. “Lieutenant, are all companies inside?”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Shut the gates.” She turned, finally, to the assembled Eastern troops. “Soldiers! You have heard joint training is about sharpening skills and forging bonds. You’ll find, here at Briggs, we have no time for such pleasantries. We have one law: Survival of the fittest. Keep up, or die.” She surveyed them, cold eyes indicating which she thought they would do. “Our motto is ‘Obey the Power’. We all must bow to a higher power.” She raised her hand to indicate the ice formations that, even in the spring, filled the hall. “Never forget that.”

She let that sink in for a moment, watching the Eastern soldiers’ faces go ashen. “You may wait here, while my men make sure no idiots got lost on the mountain. Then you will be shown to your barracks. At ease!”

As the room relaxed, and a low murmur filled the echoing hall, she turned to leave.

“Sister!” A voice boomed from near the back. Olivier froze, and though only someone as familiar with her as Miles was could see it, tension traveled up her spine and tightened in her shoulders. She pivoted, swiftly drawing her sword and holding it across her body. It was a defensive pose--anyone charging would be sliced in half.

“You snivelling baby!” She roared, ignoring the way the whole room was staring at her. “You dare address a superior officer in such a way?!”

A giant of a man, he vaguely recognized as Alex Armstrong, was making his way toward her, arms outstretched. He was sparkling impressively. “You can’t mean that?” He was beaming, and Miles wondered if he was insane. He would have run if Olivier had looked at him like that, and he had _married_ the woman.

“Of course I do, you imbecile!” She snarled, sparkling just as intensely. “You. Will. Address. Me. As. General. Armstrong. Or. Sir. While. In. Uniform. Major!” She punctuated each word with a a resounding thwack of the broadside of her sword.

“Ow! Sister!” Alex Armstrong pulled back, throwing his hands up defensively. “Stop!”

“I. Told. You. Never. To. Call. Me. That!” She continued raining blows on her brother until General Grumman stepped in.

“Now, now. General, Major. Please, have some decorum.” He indicated the soldiers watching them. The Eastern troops were staring, wide-eyed, most frozen in place. The Briggs Bears were falling over themselves, and the horrified visitors, laughing.

“I will if he will.” Olivier lowered her sword, pointing the tip at her brother’s throat. “What do you say, Major?”

“Yes, Sir!” He saluted stiffly.

Olivier flung her sword over her shoulder and sauntered off. “Miles, come get me when these idiots are dealt with.”

“Yes, Sir!” Miles quickly had Karley show General Grumman to his barracks, and then stood back to observe the soldiers before him. They were responding half-heartedly to the roll call the Mountain Guard was conducting. They were whispering to each other and looking around the cavernous room. A small group of soldiers near the front drew his eye.

“Well, that was...different.” A dark-haired man wearing non-regulation gloves commented to his companions.

“Yes, Sir.” A female lieutenant agreed, with an air of long-suffering patience.

“Roy!” An extremely jovial man bounded up from the back, throwing his arms around the glove-wearer. “Long time, no see!”

“What are you doing here?!” The first man looked genuinely surprised.

The woman gave a heavy sigh. “Hello, Sir.”

“Well, my subordinate’s old man has an in with the general, and when I heard he was coming here I just hitched a ride! So much more fun than actually working!” Miles thought the military should start doing insanity checks.

“Excuse me, Colonel?” He approached the glove-wearing man, noting his rank before speaking.

“Yes?” The Colonel pushed the second man, a Major, off his shoulder and turned.

“We’re checking everything that enters the fort, Sir. May I see your gloves?” He held his hand out. The trio before him looked shocked.

“Do you know who this is?” The Major asked.

“I do not.” Miles kept his hand out. “As second-in-command of this fort, I have the right to examine anything entering the fort.”

“This is Colonel Roy Mustang, the Flame Alchemist!” Miles felt the blood drain from his face at the man’s exclamation. “And you want to examine his ignition gloves?” Miles’ stomach was cartwheeling. _The Flame Alchemist._ The name rang in his ears. _The Hero of Ishval._ Rage was rising in him like the very flames that had destroyed his grandfather’s homeland. Mustang slapped the gloves into his hand, forcing him to focus.

“Ignition cloth, Major. Nothing more.”

“I apologize, Sir.” Miles handed them back, stiffly. He took a step backward, and tried to quench his anger.

“No worries, Major-?”

“Miles, Sir.”

“As you said, you’re inspecting everything.” Mustang waved him off, and he made his way across the room to Buccaneer.

“Are they all accounted for?”

“Yes, Sir.” Buccaneer turned to him, glancing up from his clipboard. “Are you alright, Miles?” He spoke more quietly than Miles would have imagined possible.

Miles gave a minute nod. “That man over there,” he spoke very casually, forcing his emotions under control, “is the Flame Alchemist.”

Buccaneer nodded, and gave Miles a sympathetic glance from behind the clipboard he was pretending to inspect. He spoke, somehow, even lower than before, “I know a good place to hide bodies, if anything happens.”

-

When Miles went to retrieve Olivier he found her holed up in her office, attempting to murder Grumman with her eyes alone. They were reviewing brackets for the next day’s shooting tournament, and the sparring contest the day after that.

“I want Mustang.” Olivier was glaring at Grumman, who was sitting, cheerfully, at Miles’ desk.

“I already paired him against your Major Miles, here.” Grumman told her with the air of one telling a small child they weren’t allowed dessert.

“I don’t care. He can have my-” she consulted the bracket, “Hughes, whoever that is. Mustang is mine.”

“Why so adamant?” Grumman regarded Olivier slyly.

“I have a personal score to settle with Mustang.” Olivier snarled. “I’m going to wipe that smug grin off his stupid face!”

“Well, then, if Major Miles has no objection to the switch-?” They both turned to him expectantly.

Miles _did_ object. The rage in him wanted to kill Mustang, to make him _suffer_. He realized, of course, that was the whole point. Olivier would not let him out himself in front of the whole of Eastern Command. He shook his head. “No objections, Sirs.”

“Splendid!” Grumman clapped his hands together as though the whole thing had been his idea all along. He opened his mouth, as though to speak again, but Olivier cut him off.

“You came here for a reason, Miles?” When Grumman turned to face Miles she gave him a pointed look.

“Yes, Sir. We’re ready to begin the demonstration of our new anti-tank guns.”

“Excellent!” She leapt to her feet. “Let’s go.”

Miles followed the two Generals out onto the roof where Buccaneer had reassembled the two sets of troops. Eastern had been given enough time to tidy up, and their ranks were now pristine and uniform once more. The new gun was set up, balanced perfectly and pointing at a mountain peak on their side of the border. No reason to start a skirmish, afterall.

“What a remarkable piece of equipment,” Grumman remarked, examining the gun. “Who will be firing it?”

“I will.” Olivier allowed herself a slight smirk at Grumman’s surprise. “I’m an excellent marksman.”

“Of course.” He backed away. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Olivier began to make final adjustments, lining up her shot with care. Friendly fire was as deadly as an enemy’s bullet and she took no chances.

“Wonderful view up here, isn’t it?” There was something odd in Grumman’s tone, something that implied an inside joke that Miles didn’t get. He glanced at Grumman’s aide who agreed a little too readily, and followed his line of sight, right to Olivier who was bent over the gun. Miles gritted his teeth, and reminded himself that decking a general, even, or perhaps, _especially,_ in defense of the woman he was (illegally) married to, was a bad idea.

“Yes, Sir.” He was impressed by his own ability to disguise his emotions, wondering briefly if he was becoming as cold as Olivier, herself. “If you look over here-” he pointed forcefully, “you can see a wonderful collection of caves. And over here-” He continued diverting the men’s attention until Olivier pulled the trigger.

The gun worked beautifully. There was a resounding bang, and the mountain peak across from them trembled and smoked. An avalanche of snow rained down. “Wonderful!” Grumman clapped, and the rest of his troops followed suit. “Absolutely splendid! High Command will be pleased!”

Olivier straightened, and inclined her head briefly. “I believe you brought a weapon of your own, Sir?”

“Of course, of course!” Grumman turned, and gestured for someone to come forward. “Colonel Mustang has quite a reputation, I’m sure you know, as the Flame Alchemist! He is going to demonstrate his incredible alchemic skill for you.”

Olivier’s eye twitched. “That’s hardly a new weapon, Sir. That’s not even new alchemy, he’s been doing the same thing for years.”

“Nevertheless!” Grumman beamed. “It’s never been done here. Please stand back.” He added, with a charming smile.

Olivier backed away obligingly. Mustang strode confidently to the front and faced a dummy. He raised a hand to snap, and then stopped. “There’s one small problem here, Sirs.”

“What’s that, Colonel?” Grumman’s grin did nothing to cover the obviously scripted line.

“Briggs has a much lower oxygen concentration than the rest of Amestris due to the altitude.” He snapped his fingers, there was a spark and a tiny flame shot forward, licking pitifully at the dummy’s face and fizzling out. “See?” He smirked and turned to the lieutenant in the audience. “Hawkeye, do you have another pair of my gloves?”

Hawkeye hurried forward, gloves in hand. “Here you are, Sir.”

“ _These_ gloves are special.” Mustang held them up for everyone to see. “I altered them specifically for this altitude.” He raised his hand and snapped again. This time, a massive flame roared to life, incinerating the dummy. Several of the soldiers in the front rows leapt back, waving away smoke and sparks.

Mustang coughed. “I may have misestimated.” He beamed broadly, nonetheless. There was scattered applause among the smoked out soldiers.

“Briggs: one. Eastern: zero.” Olivier whispered, barely moving her lips. She was clapping so lazily her gloved hands made no noise whatsoever.

Miles couldn’t answer, his gaze fixed on the smoldering dummy. His grandfather and cousins, his aunts and uncles, had they all died in this way? It was one thing to know they died in the war, entirely another to see how they well could have passed. He turned on his heel, and made it just inside a scout’s box before he vomited violently. He reemerged cautiously. At a glance, it seemed no one had noticed his quick departure. Lieutenant Hawkeye’s eyes flicked away from him, a little too quickly, as he took up his post behind Olivier. He hoped she hadn’t connected the dots.

\---

Dinner in the officer’s mess was a disaster. Grumman had cheerfully co-opted the event and arranged a kind of ludicrously complicated seating chart. Soldiers were wandering from table to table, colliding, and spilling whole trays of food as they hunted for their seats. Olivier, seated at a head table with Grumman, was stabbing her food more forcefully than necessary and glaring at the pandemonium before her.

Miles found his table with relative ease, and sat down.

“Hi! I’m Rebecca Catalina!” Grumman had also insisted on a lack of formalities and the Lieutenant before him greeted Miles as cheerfully as an old schoolmate.

“Miles.” He nodded, politely, and surveyed the others at their table.

“Yo. Havoc.” A blond lieutenant with a scraggly five o’clock shadow waved.

“I’m Maes Hughes.” The major who had flung himself on Mustang earlier beamed at him. “You’ve got to see this!” He pulled a photo from his pocket and thrust it at him. Miles glanced at it, uncertainly. It was of Hughes, and a lovely young woman in a white gown. “My beautiful bride, Gracia.” Hughes kissed the photo, almost reverently, and held it out for the others to see. They regarded it with as much befuddlement as Miles had.

“I think this is my table?” Lieutenant Hawkeye appeared, eyeing the group uncertainly.

“Riza!” Catalina beamed. “Shove over, Hughes.” She glared at the man who was still admiring his wedding photo lovingly. “Sit by me!”

Hawkeye, complied. “Hello again, Major Miles.” She gave him a polite smile. “Lt. Havoc, Major Hughes.” She nodded at each in turn.

“Hawkeye! This is a casual dinner.” Hughes pocketed the photo to scold Hawkeye, sternly. “No titles!”

“Yes, S-Hughes” Hawkeye looked like she wanted to sit somewhere, anywhere, else. Miles could relate.

“So, Miles.” Catalina smiled warmly. “Do you have a first name?”

“I do.” Miles took a bite of toast.

There was a pause. “Is it a secret?” Catalina asked with a sly smirk.

“Yes.” Miles sipped some soup, wondering where this was going. Hawkeye was pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Awe, how come?” Catalina whined, playfully. It occurred to Miles she might be flirting.

“Because.” He told her, drily. “Even my wife laughs at it.” He hoped that would satisfy her.

Catalina laughed, like it was a joke. The rest of the table seemed to take it that way, as well. Miles did notice Catalina subtly glance at his left hand, but she seemed unperturbed by the ring she saw.

“We’ll invent one, then.” She smiled, broadly. “Sound good, Dennis?”

Miles choked on his soup. Hawkeye looked like she wanted to sink into the ground.

“Dennis it is!” Catalina was not flirting now, Miles was sure. Still, she was remarkably friendly, a rarity in Briggs.

The remainder of dinner passed well enough, with only one incident when an unfortunate Captain had tripped and spilled his tray of food on Olivier who had berated him so soundly he had fled, seeming near tears.

\---

“Miles.” Someone was whispering, shaking his shoulder. “Miles. Wake up.” Miles sat up slowly, blinking.

“W-what?” He rubbed his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“Wake up, you idiot!” The whisper was a quiet hiss. “A Drachman would have your head clean off by now.”

“Mmm. Yes, Sir.” Still groggy, Miles at least recognized that Olivier was crouching over his bunk, holding his shoulder.

“Come on.” She pulled him up. Obediently, he followed her out of his barrack, down the dimly lit hallway, and into-a janitor’s closet?

“What’s wrong, Olivier?”

“Who says something’s wrong?”

“I’m standing in a closet in my pajamas and socks. It’s the middle of the night. Something has to be wrong.” He was, at least, awake now.

“Actually, I just wanted to talk.” Olivier frowned up at him.

“You dragged me out of bed to talk?” He rubbed his neck. “Who are you and what did you do to my Olivier?”

She rolled her eyes. “This is important, Miles.”

Shivering, Miles wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “What’s going on, my love?”

“Mustang.” She was stiff in his embrace. “And everyone else who fought in Ishval. That’s half the troops Grumman brought.”

“What about them?” He had a feeling he knew where this was going.

She pulled out of his embrace to look up at him. “I know they make you angry. I don’t blame you. I’m angry.” She sounded slightly, uncharacteristically, uncertain. “This is very personal to you, though. I can protect you from many things, but I cannot protect you from yourself, _my love_.” There was a depth to the phrase that was not lost on Miles. Olivier was not, by nature, a sentimental person. She rarely told him she loved him, though he never doubted it, and she had never referred to him as her love. She gripped his arms, tightly. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash?”

Miles took a deep breath. “I can’t promise that. I promise I’ll try.” He offered, hesitantly. “And I know that if I fail, you’ll stop me.” There was a pause, and in the darkness of the closet Miles tried to read her face. He might as well have tried to read Cretan from all the good it did. “Is that acceptable, love?”

She kissed him suddenly, stretching on tiptoe and gripping the back of his neck for support. Miles clung to her, surprised and pleased. She pulled away just as suddenly as she had begun. “Remember that, Miles, when you’re about to do something foolish.” She stroked his cheek, spun on her heel, and slipped out of the closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I apologize to any Grumman fans, but he is a total sleaze (though not _wholly_ irredeemable). That is all.
> 
> Comments are much appreciated!


	15. Pity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> North-East training continues! 
> 
> Happy reading!

If Buccaneer had noticed his absence in the middle of the night, he gave no indication. “You ready to kick some Eastern rear?” He asked Miles in the breakfast line, a familiar wildness is his dark eyes.

“Sure.” Miles allowed himself to glance at Olivier who was ignoring Grumman chattering in her ear with a scowl. She was downing what was probably her third, or fourth, cup of coffee and picking at her heaping plate of food.

“I’m really looking forward to the war games.” Buccaneer told him, grabbing three rolls. “Not that the contests won’t be fun, but-hey!” He was distracted as a sergeant piled scrambled eggs on his plate. “Are these real eggs?”

“Yes, Sir.” The sergeant replied, looking amused. “General Grumman brought rations with him. Something about not eating ‘dehydrated cardboard’.”

“Works for me!” Buccaneer turned back to Miles, cheerfully. “Anyway, simulated combat games. That’s where you really see what they’re made of!”

“Right.” Miles agreed, distractedly. “It’ll be fun.”

“Good morning, Sir.” A voice behind him made him turn. Lieutenant Hawkeye had appeared, seemingly out of thin air. She grabbed two rolls and dropped one on her plate. With a sigh, she turned and gave one to Mustang who appeared to be sleeping standing up.

“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Miles greeted her politely. He knew she had been a sniper in Ishval, but he couldn’t bring himself to hate her. She reminded him, oddly, of his sisters.

Buccaneer grabbed his arm. “Hey! Don’t fraternize with the enemy!”

“The enemy, Lieutenant?” Hawkeye raised her eyebrows at him. “We’re all Amestrian soldiers, here.”

Buccaneer rolled his eyes. “Right. Like you’re not going to use those big doey eyes to fool us, and then-BAM!” He pounded the table.

“I had no such intentions.” Hawkeye turned back to the mess line with a dignified huff.

“Hey.” Mustang had apparently woken up. “Leave my lieutenant alone.” Him, on the other hand, Miles had no problems hating.

“I’ll use _my_ big doey eyes to fool you, though!” Catalina, like Hawkeye, was apparently capable of appearing out of thin air. “Actually, I just need another roll.” She grabbed one from Buccaneer’s plate and slipped away again, grinning.

“I-You can’t just-” Buccaneer spluttered, blushing furiously.

“Ah. You meant women.” Hawkeye remarked drily. Yes, she definitely reminded Miles of his sisters. “I’ll see you both on the range.” She nodded and left, Mustang trailing sleepily behind her.

Miles smirked. “Don’t worry, Buccaneer, I don’t think you’re her type.”

“Shut up.”

-

The shooting tournament was going remarkably well, Miles thought, a little too soon. He had made it into the semi-finals before being beaten by Lt. Catalina who gave him a saucy wink when he congratulated her. He was standing on the sidelines, watching and cheering whenever a Briggs soldier won, when a scuffle broke out behind him. “Hey! Break it up!” He pushed himself into the center of the fight and pulled out Sergeant Roach. “What is going on here?” Roach was a good soldier, making the fight all the more unusual.

Panting, Roach pointed at the Eastern sergeant he had been brawling with. Miles was surprised to see Mustang had taken hold of the other man’s collar and was holding him back. “He-!” Roach sputtered. “He said-!” Red-faced, the sergeant trailed off.

“Spit it out, soldier.” Mustang ordered, glaring sternly from one sergeant to the other.

Roach looked up at Miles, wide-eyed. “The Queen-” he started, Miles nodded, and Mustang looked confused. “He said-” Roach looked like he couldn’t bring himself to go on. Hesitantly, he held up his hands and traced an hourglass in the air. Miles released him and turned to the other sergeant.

“You want to repeat yourself, Sergeant? To the General?”

“General Grumman won’t care, Sir.” The sergeant was clearly nervous, but defiant.

“Not Grumman.” Miles growled. “My general.”The sergeant went white. “No, Sir.” His voice was barely more than a squeak.

“Then you’ll keep your thoughts to yourself in the future, Sergeant.” Mustang released his grip on the younger man’s collar. “If I catch you saying something like that about a superior, or-” he seemed to have a sudden thought, “-any of your fellow soldiers, you’ll regret it. Now get out of here!” He turned to Miles, “I trust you’ll take care of yours?”

“Yes, Sir!” Miles watched the Colonel leave before turning to Roach. “Good man, Sergeant.” He patted him on the back. “But General Armstrong neither needs nor wants you to defend her honor.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially. “If you ever feel so inclined, just be subtle, alright?”

“Yes, Sir!” Roach grinned, saluted, and vanished.

Miles returned to watching the competition. It was down to the last two, Olivier and Hawkeye. He wasn’t surprised. Olivier never missed a shot, and he had heard numerous men refer to the lieutenant as “the Hawk’s Eye” in almost reverent tones. They were neatly tied, and the targets were being moved back continuously in an effort to get either woman to miss.

At last, there was a triumphant shout from the the target-movers. “Hawkeye wins!” The Eastern soldiers roared their thunderous applause drowning the boos and groans coming from the Briggs side.

Olivier ordered the targets brought up, her face unreadable. Miles took up his post at her side, curiously. The targets were overlapped, and sure enough, Olivier’s final shot, while still in the center of the bulls-eye, was a few millimeters to the left of true-center. She regarded the targets for a moment before turning to Hawkeye.

“I’ve never been out-shot before.” If her icy tone surprised Hawkeye, she didn’t show it.

“Nor have I, Sir.”

Olivier’s mouth twitched into one of her rare, genuine, smiles. “Excellent work, Lieutenant.” She stuck out her hand, and shook Hawkeye’s. “If you ever want a challenge, seek me out. We need more soldiers like you here at Briggs.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Hawkeye smiled politely.

“Now, now.” Grumman interjected, “I need good soldiers, too! No poaching, my good General!”

Olivier sneered in response. She turned to leave, but suddenly seemed to think better of it. “Lieutenant Catalina!” She turned to the woman who she had beaten in the previous round.

Catalina jumped and looked around as though there might be another Catalina. “Yes, Sir?”

“Same to you, if you ever want a commander with better things to do than ogle you.”

Catalina flushed. “Thank you, Sir!” As Olivier marched back inside, she turned to Hawkeye beaming. “She likes us!”

“So it would seem.” Hawkeye glanced at Mustang. “She seems very organized, too.” Mustang sputtered incoherently, and Grumman chortled at them all. “Dismissed until dinner!” He called to the group at large. “Please take this time to get to know members of the other command!”

-

Olivier gave Miles stern instructions to keep his eyes on the Eastern soldiers and locked herself in her barracks to avoid Grumman. Miles roamed the halls, observing the troops. While a few groups, here and there, were mixing most of the soldiers were divided down the lines of Briggs vs. East.

He spied the Major Armstrong composing a letter and seized the opportunity to get to know Olivier’s brother.

“Hello, Major. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Not at all!” Beaming, Alex put down his pen, and turned to him. “Just writing a letter to my mother, she does so worry about Livvie!”

Miles’ lips twitched, but he pushed his smile down. “Indeed. What do you think of our fine fort?”

“It’s quite impressive, but hardly a fit place for a lady like my sister.” The younger Armstrong seemed oblivious to the kind of woman his sister really was. “Right.” Miles gave him his most convincing noncommittal smile.

Armstrong gave him an odd look. “Do you disagree?”

“That’s hardly my place.” Miles was not about to get in the middle of a family argument. “I will say General Armstrong is the best commander I have ever had. Fort Briggs would suffer greatly if she were to be removed.”

The other major nodded, thoughtfully. “I will include your assessment in my letter, thank you.” He picked up the letter and Miles got a better look at the stationary which was bordered in pink roses. He arched his eyebrows, surprised. “Marvelous, isn’t it?” Armstrong held up the paper, proudly. “My sister designs them. The art of design has been passed down the Armstrong family line for generations, you know!”

Grateful his goggles gave him protection from the blinding sparkles, Miles nodded. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to get back to my patrolling.”

“Of course! It was a pleasure meeting you, Major Miles!” Still beaming, he returned to his letter.

\---

That night Miles found himself back in the closet with Olivier, who had at least given him time to don his boots.

“This isn’t going to become a habit, is it?” He asked, as the door clicked shut.

“Only if it needs to be.” She took his hands, a surprisingly gentle move on her part. “I saw you arguing with Mustang earlier.”

“What?” He frowned. “Oh, that. No, he was actually helping me settle an argument between Sgt. Roach and one of the Eastern sergeants.”

“What about?” Her voice was laced with disbelief, and she squeezed his hands, tightly.

“You don’t want to know.”

“ _Miles_.” It was a plea and a warning. With a jolt Miles realized she was afraid for him. Everyone thought the Ice Queen had no heart, and in a way she didn’t--she had given it to him, completely. He, alone, had the power to break it. Holding her hands in that moment, he realized he might as well have been holding her heart, fragile, damaged, thing that it was. She was terrified, then, that he would shatter it, destroy it along with Mustang and himself in blind hatred.

“It was nothing like that.” He reassured her. “The other sergeant, I never did ask his name, made some unsavory comment about you and Roach jumped to your defense.”

There was a moment of silence while she processed this. “Oh. Good.” She loosened her grip on his hands. “If that’s really all-” She snorted suddenly. “Did you tell Roach I don’t need his protection?” She sounded amused, and vaguely flattered, as though Roach were a young child confessing his puppy love.

“I did.” He left out the part where he’d given Roach quiet permission to keep it up. “Why do you let them say things like that about you, love?”

She shrugged. “I’ve gotten so used to it, it hardly registers anymore. I learned a long time ago that the best way to deal with those who only see me for my body is to ignore them and keep doing whatever I have to. Maybe they’ll see me eventually, but no sense wasting energy on them.”

Miles nodded. It was rare to find someone like Olivier who looked past his red eyes and saw him as a _human_ and not merely an _Ishvalan_. He hadn’t thought of it before, but he supposed it was rare, at least in the military, to find men who looked past her curves and saw an _individual_ rather than _eye-candy_.

“Regardless, Miles,” Olivier broke the contemplative silence, “I needed to be sure.”

“Of course.” Silence fell again, more peaceful this time. “I think I’d better go.” Miles gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “Before someone realizes I’m gone.” He turned and slipped from the closet, wishing he didn’t have to keep leaving her alone.

\---

“For our first sparring match today,” Grumman was announcing cheerfully the next morning, “we have the Flame Alchemist vs the Northern Wall of Briggs!” There was scattered applause and a few soldiers seemed to think Mustang would be fighting the wall, itself. “Of course,” Grumman continued “I hear up North they like to call her the Ice Queen!” The applause was more enthusiastic this time around.

Olivier and Mustang marched into the center of the ring. Olivier shrugged off her coat and jacket and tossed them to Miles, who caught them readily. Not to be outdone, Mustang threw his coat and jacket to Hawkeye who caught them just as easily. They stood a minute and regarded each other. Olivier was stoic, even in short sleeves, and smirked when Mustang, in his long-sleeved thermals, shivered. They stepped forward and shook hands. Miles smirked as Mustang winced and gingerly extricated his hand from her vise-like grip.

“Good luck, General.” Mustang gave Olivier a charming smile. “I am honored to be your opponent.”

“Tch!” Olivier glared. “You little brat!”

Mustang looked as surprised as everyone else. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Don’t tell me you don’t remember!”

“Remember what?” Mustang faltered, apparently perplexed, before fixing a smooth smirk into place. “I’m sure I would remember if I’d met someone as lovely as you before.” A few feet from Miles, Hawkeye winced visibly.

“Don’t play innocent with me, you insolent suck-up!” Olivier snarled. “My father’s retirement party, remember?!” At Mustang’s bewildered stare, she continued. “You were hanging around with those two-bit Christmas girls, _uninvited!_ ”

“Hey!” Mustang protested. “Madame Christmas doesn’t have any two-bit girls!”

Miles turned to Buccaneer. “What’s a Christmas girl?” Buccaneer only shrugged, every bit as bewildered as Miles.

Mustang continued. “Besides, what’s it to you? I went to a lot of parties with those girls.”

Olivier sneered. “Were you as horrible at all of them?”

Mustang looked more offended by the minute. “I was a perfect gentleman!”

“Hardly!” Olivier’s eyes were glowing with rage. “I was minding my own business, at my father’s party, in my own garden, when you-” She pointed, angrily, “you pushed me in the fountain!”

There was a pause, and Miles was sure he saw a tumbleweed blow across the ring.

“That was you?” Mustang asked, surprised. “That was almost-” he did some quick math and shook his head. “Was that before or after you ran away and joined the military?”

“How dare you!” The vein in Olivier’s forehead popped. “I have never run away from anything in my life!”

Mustang smirked. “I’m impressed you remember me at all, all I remember was an arrogant, stuck-up brat who-”

With an inarticulate scream of rage Olivier leapt, swinging her sword at Mustang’s head. To his credit, Mustang was faster than he looked. He jumped back, and snapped his fingers. Olivier leapt back out of range of his flames.

“Hey!” She screamed at Grumman. “How come he gets his gloves, and all I get is this-” she shook the wooden training sword angrily, “trash?!”

“We didn’t want any casualties.” Grumman smiled, disarmingly from his seat on the podium. “Duck.” Though it surprised most people, Olivier was very good at taking orders. She ducked and Mustang’s ribbon of flame passed harmlessly over her. “Best to focus on the fight, dear.”

For a half-second Olivier looked like she was going to chuck the sword at Grumman, but she turned back to the fight obediently. It was a quick affair, to the chagrin of what seemed like half of Eastern command’s troops, who were rooting _against_ Mustang. Mustang initially kept out of range of Olivier’s sword, using his flame alchemy to keep her at bay.

She dodged under a ribbon of flame, and keeping low, kicked his feet out from under him. He fell back, surprised. He lifted one of his hands, the other stabilizing him, but Olivier, with unparalleled speed grabbed and tore his glove. She stomped on his other hand, and then reached down and yanked the glove off. After that, Olivier beat him so soundly, Miles found himself feeling sorry for the man.

“You know, boss,” Lieutenant Havoc leaned on the barrier, twirling a cigarette in his fingers. “You probably shouldn’t have pushed her in that fountain.”

From his place on the ground, Mustang managed a menacing snarl. “Wanna light, Havoc?” He held up the untorn glove that Olivier had launched at his face.

“Nah, I’m good. Thanks.” Havoc slipped into the crowd, bumping into Miles on his way out of sight. “Sorry, Sir.” Havoc gave him a good-natured grin and carried on.

Miles didn’t even realize how nervous he was until Grumman called him into the arena. He hung his coat over the rail and and grabbed his preferred training sword, hefting it experimentally. Hughes took his time making his way into the ring, apparently distracted showing off more wedding photos.

Miles glanced up at Olivier who had joined Grumman on the podium and was regarding the singed edge of her hair with a kind of bored indifference. She gave him a fleeting smile, one corner of her mouth twitching upward for a split-second.

“Good luck.” Hughes gripped his hand, smile vanishing. A steely look crossed his face, chasing away any thought that he would be an easy opponent.

“Same to you.” Miles inclined his head, and they backed up, awaiting Grumman’s signal.

Hughes wasted no time, throwing a practice knife the second the whistle sounded. Miles ducked and swung, forcing Hughes off balance. They were far more evenly matched than Olivier and Mustang had been. Miles remained on the defensive, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. Every time that he thought Hughes would run out of knives he managed to conjure another one.

Miles ducked, a little too slow, as a knife flew at his face. His snow glasses were knocked clear off his face. He staggered, blinking in the sudden light. He kept his head down, and watched, sideways. Hughes drew back, ready to strike once more. Miles was going to lose, and in a sudden moment of defiance he raised his eyes to meet Hughes’ gaze.

The color drained from Hughes’ face, and he froze--hand still raised to throw another knife. Miles could hear confused murmuring among the soldiers surrounding them, he could tell they hadn’t yet seen his eyes. He didn’t dare look away, but if he had he would have seen Olivier tense in her seat, clutching the hilt of her sword, ready to leap over the barrier and throw herself between Miles and Hughes.

“I-I-” Hughes faltered. “I can’t.” His knife slipped through his fingers and he lowered his hand, slowly. “I’m sorry.”

Miles closed his eyes, and exhaled, slowly. “I don’t need your pity, Major.” He reopened his eyes and fixed them firmly on the ashen soldier across from him.

“I know.” Hughes picked up his snow goggles and handed them to him, uncertainly. “But, I think I need yours.”

Miles slipped them back on, and straightened, taking in the bewilderment on the faces of the Eastern soldiers. The Briggs Bears were unusually still and several of them were clutching weapons, as though ready to attack.

“I forfeit, Sir.” Hughes turned to Grumman. “I apologize.” He saluted.

Looking bemused, Grumman nodded. “As you wish, Major.” He turned to his aide who was keeping score. “Please put a point down for Briggs.”

Miles turned and left the ring, not bothering to shake his opponent's hand. Whispers followed him all the way back into the fort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, feedback is greatly appreciated. :)


	16. Let the Games Begin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!

Miles wasn’t surprised to hear knocking on his barrack door, a few hours later. He had holed up in the barracks after his somewhat disastrous fight with Hughes, and was waiting to be thoroughly reprimanded. He pulled open the door angrily, but the general on the other side was not the one he had been expecting.

“Oh. Hello, Sir.” He blinked at Grumman, confused.

“Hello Major, might I come in?” Grumman was smiling in his patented overly-cheerful way. “I brought tea.” His aide, looking annoyed, was holding a large tea tray.

“I, er, yes, Sir.” He stepped back to allow Grumman to enter. The aide handed him the tea tray and shut the door with a glare. “Have a-” he looked around for anything resembling a chair, “foot locker?” He offered, beyond confused.

“Thank you, but this bunk looks much more comfortable.” Grumman settled himself on Buccaneer’s bunk and beamed around. “Now, this is cozy, isn’t it?”

“I-” Miles looked at the cold, grey, barrack and then the tray of tea he was still holding. “Tea, Sir?”

“Oh, yes, thanks! Cream, two sugars.”

Miles awkwardly lowered the tray onto his foot locker and poured the tea. “May I ask what you are doing here, Sir?”

“Of course! I just came to check up on you, after your fight.” Grumman was watching him closely.

“I’m doing quite well, thank you.” Miles perched on the edge of his own bunk, uncertainly.

“You know,” Grumman sipped his tea, eyes never leaving Miles. “My wife was Ishvalan, well part, at any rate, I believe her mother was half.”

Miles choked on the tea he had been cautiously sipping. “Sir-?” He didn’t get to finish his question, though, as a scuffle broke out just outside his door.

“Get out of my way, you pathetic little-!” There was a loud thumping sound and Olivier wrenched open the door. Grumman’s aide was slumped on the floor, clutching his head and groaning. “Miles, are you-?” She surveyed the two men holding tea cups and snarled. “ _Tea?!_ I came all the way up from the arena at a dead run, and you two are having tea?!”

“Sorry, Sir.” Miles leapt to his feet.

“Would you like a cup?” Grumman offered, with a sly smile.

“Tch!” Olivier stepped over the aide, kicking him as she did so. “I don’t drink that sissy leaf water!” She slammed the door. “What are you doing in here?” She glared at Grumman, hand twitching at the hilt of her sword.

“I could ask you the same.” Grumman’s mustache twitched with mirth. “This is a men’s hall.”

Olivier snorted. “Whatever.”

“I was just telling Miles here about my late wife.”

“Auntie Liz?” Olivier frowned. “Why?”

“You knew his wife?” Miles interjected, bewildered. Olivier cleared her throat and he added, “Sir?”

“Her father and I go way back.” Grumman waved his hand, dismissing Miles’ confusion. “Sit down, both of you.” Olivier dropped angrily onto Miles’ bunk and Miles shuffled awkwardly over to Buccaneer’s foot locker. Grumman was right, the bunks were much more comfortable. “Anyway, I lost her a long time before the war. Do you remember my daughter?”

“No.” Olivier didn’t seem any less confused than Miles.

“No, I suppose not. You would have been very young when she ran off with that alchemist.” He gave a heavy sigh, uncharacteristically somber. “He didn’t approve of the military, you see. We had some horrible arguments, and they ran away together.”

Miles and Olivier exchanged uncomfortable glances.

“That’s unfortunate, Sir.” Olivier cleared her throat. “But, what does this have to do with Miles?”

“Oh, nothing really.” Grumman smiled, brightly. “Except that my granddaughter is part Ishvalan, too.”

“And?”

“Well, there are those in High Command who would be very displeased to discover you kept an Ishvalan adjutant. I just wanted you both to know I had no intention of informing them. After all, if anyone realized my granddaughter had Ishvalan blood-” He shook his head, looking pained. “Even she doesn’t know it.”

“Is your granddaughter in the military, Sir?” Miles wondered, for the first time, how many Amestrian-passing Ishvalan soldiers had slipped through the cracks of the military’s internment camps.

“Yes.” Grumman smiled, thinly, as he rose. He collected the tea tray, and turned to leave. 

“Sir.” Miles interrupted, garnering surprised looks from both generals. “I think you should tell her. Your granddaughter, she deserves to know.” Grumman nodded, and departed without another word.

-

Miles was surprised at supper, which was taking place camp-style outdoors, to find himself surrounded by anxious Briggs Bears. “You alright?” Buccaneer asked him, gruffly as he clapped a hand on his back.

“Yes. Are you?” Buccaneer had an ugly goose egg on his forehead.

“Yes.” His cheeks colored. “That Catalina looks cute and innocent, but she packs a mean punch.”

“I’m pretty sure that was a high-kick, actually.” Karley smirked.

“Says the man with the black eye.” Buccaneer countered. “Lt Hawkeye got you good, too. At least I won, in the end.”

“That wasn’t a fair fight.” Karley countered with a scowl. “She’s a decorated combat vet and I just graduated from Officer School. I do radios, not hand-to-hand!”

“Did you _all_ get your tails kicked?” Miles had thought the Eastern soldiers looked too happy.

“Not me, Sir!” Roach beamed. “Henschel beat Lt. Havoc, too. Most of Echo, Bravo, and all of Alpha went undefeated.”

“It was pretty fifty-fifty.” Karley admitted, shifting the icicle he had wrapped in a towel and pressed to his eye.

“Warrant Officer Karley!” Lieutenant Hawkeye approached the group, a determined look on her face.

“What does _she_ want?” Karley groaned, then turned to her. “Yes, Sir?”

Hawkeye started. “Sir? Do I look like a ‘sir’ to you?”

“Sorry, Ma’am!” Karley reddened as the soldiers around them guffawed. “General Armstrong doesn’t allow the term.”

Hawkeye nodded. “I understand. I just wanted to see if you were alright? I didn’t mean to cause any lasting damage.”

“I’ll be fine, Ma’am.” Karley lowered the improvised ice pack. “Got a nice shiner to remember you by, though.”

Hawkeye smiled. “Well, you can still redeem yourself in the games tomorrow.”

“Or get another black eye.” Buccaneer sniggered. Hawkeye didn’t dignify his remark with a reply.

“Yoo-hoo!” Catalina bounded over. “Riza, let’s go get some grub before Susan eats it all!”

“Rebecca.” Hawkeye chided. “That’s uncalled for.”

Catalina shrugged. “Remember the end-of-year feast at the Academy?”

Hawkeye’s lips twitched. “Fair enough. Won’t you join us, Major?”

Miles glanced around in case there was another major in earshot. There wasn’t. “I guess so. How about you?” Buccaneer and Karley shook their heads, emphatically. He honed in on Roach. “Come on, Sergeant.” Roach looked like he wanted to protest, but he followed them obediently.

Seated around one of the many campfires in the area, they began skewering the chopped meats and vegetables they were provided.

“Cook your own, huh?” Catalina lowered her kebob into the flames. “What kind of dinner is this?”

“General Grumman’s idea of a good time, I’m sure.” Miles stabbed a particularly stubborn potato.

“He’s an odd duck.” Catalina mused, apparently oblivious to the fact one of her carrots was on fire.

“I believe the term you want is eccentric.” Hawkeye corrected. “Your dinner’s on fire.”

“Huh?” Catalina yanked her skewer out of the flames. “Aw, man. I hate charcoal.”

“Here, Ma’am.” Roach offered her a fresh carrot. “I don’t really like carrots.”

“Thanks, sarge!” Catalina took it, and continued her line of thinking. “I mean, he’s nice enough, but look-” She pointed. Grumman was telling a wild tale to a group of amused soldiers, gesturing wildly and using two kebobs as props. Olivier was glaring up at him, her sparkles visible even from their place a few hundred yards away. Grumman’s second kebob had obviously been hers. “Ooh, I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that glare.” Catalina shivered.

Miles smirked. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to her.”

“Oh, you’re the Ice Queen’s adjutant, I forgot!” Catalina had set another carrot on fire. Hawkeye reached over and took her kebob away.

“Rebecca, I swear you’re as bad as Mustang.” There was a startled silence. Hawkeye stiffened. “Please don’t repeat that.” They all reassured her they wouldn’t.

“This adjutant thing sounds like a rough gig.” Catalina smirked.

“It is.” Hawkeye and Miles told her, simultaneously. They glanced at each other and chuckled.

“What’s she really like, then?” Catalina asked, taking her finished kebob back from Hawkeye and munching on it. “I know that Mustang’s all charm and laziness hiding a good heart, but what about the Ice Queen?”

Miles considered. “Majestic.” He pulled his kebob out and checked to see if it was finished. “She doesn’t just earn your respect, she commands it. She is fair and impartial, cold as ice. She’s calculating and beyond brilliant. She is unprejudiced and ruthless.” He paused, and then smiled. “She’s our queen.”

“She’s really all that?” Catalina looked surprised. “I figured there was a heart of gold, or a secret love of kittens, or something hiding in there.”

Roach laughed abruptly, covering it by shoving his kebob in his mouth.

“You have a great deal of respect for her.” Hawkeye noted, ignoring Catalina and Roach.

“I do.” Miles agreed. “What of Colonel Mustang?”

“I have the utmost respect for him.” Hawkeye seemed to be expecting him to argue with her. Catalina made a face around her mouthful of kebob. “He wears many masks, some more pleasant than others, but he is a good man.”

“He’fapaifiddear.”

“What?” The other three soldiers stared at Catalina.

She chewed and swallowed noisily. “He’s a pain in the rear.”

“Lieutenant Catalina,” Hawkeye fixed her with a stern glare, “might I remind you, you are speaking of a superior?”

“You might.” Catalina shrugged. “But that won’t change my opinion.”

“You know where you stand, that is admirable.” Miles cut off what looked like an old argument between the two. “Discretion is an equally admirable trait.”

Roach’s eyes went wide, suddenly. He leapt to his feet. “Sir!” Miles glanced up and hastened to join him, standing and saluting. He was vaguely aware of Catalina and Hawkeye doing the same.

“As you were.” Mustang waved them back to their seats. They sat back down, somewhat uneasily. “I was hoping to have the chance to talk with you, Major.” Mustang lowered himself beside Miles.

“About what, Sir?” Miles faced him head on, keeping all his fear and rage hidden under a veneer of cool professionalism.

“Your fight with Major Hughes.”

Miles nodded, he had wondered how long it would take for people to begin asking questions. “What of it, Sir?”

“How did you get him to forfeit?” Mustang was watching him closely.

“Must have been my powerful presence, Sir.” Miles let sarcasm lace his words.

“Must be.” Mustang studied him. “I heard you were originally slated to combat me.”

“Yes, Sir. General Armstrong requested the switch. She spoke of a personal score.” He let a smirk twitch across his face. “I can only assume she meant the fountain incident.”

“Here’s the thing, Major.” Mustang glared at him. “I don’t like it when my friends are threatened.”

Miles bristled. “I assure you, I did no such thing.”

“See what I mean?” Catalina interjected. “This is what we were just talking about. Ow!” She glared at Hawkeye who had a determinedly innocent expression fixed on her face.

“Roy!” Hughes was strolling over, a forced casual air about him. “Leave the poor major alone!”

“Hughes.” Mustang glared. “Why did you forfeit, then?”

“I told you,” Hughes sighed. “I lost my nerve that’s all.”

“Very well.” Mustang rose, giving Miles one more dark look. “Let’s go.”

Hughes spared one more glance back, as Mustang stormed off. He nodded at Miles, and his green eyes communicated a silent message. Miles returned his nod, confident he would no sooner turn him in than Grumman had. It was odd, he mused, all the hatred that spurred the war between the two nations, and so few Amestrian soldiers seemed to feel it.

\---

The sun was not even up the next morning when they gathered for the start of the war games. Miles stood behind Olivier and surveyed the soldiers before them. Briggs had donned their iconic white, and Eastern remained in their dark blue and black. The soldiers from the east were shivering, and yawns were rampant among both commands.

“Are you sure you want to compete in the games?” Grumman asked Olivier. “I am looking forward to waiting them out in my nice warm tent with a mug of hot cocoa.”

“Of course I’m going to compete.” Olivier glared at him. “A good leader doesn’t shirk from what they command their men to do.”

“Alright, then.” Grumman smiled, a sly gesture that set Miles on edge slightly. “If you’ll just accompany my aide for some last minute preparations-” He indicated his aide who was a few hundred feet away and talking to Mustang. Olivier snorted, but marched over to them. “Lieutenant Hawkeye! If you’ll just join us here on the podium!” Grumman waved the sniper over.

Hawkeye joined them, looking politely puzzled. Miles gave her a polite, equally puzzled, nod and watched the aide lead Olivier and Mustang into the command tent.

“Sirs!” Karley ran up to the edge of the podium, a heavy radio on his back. “Excuse me, Sir! I have an urgent message for Major Miles!” He held out a headset, which Miles took uncertainly.

“Who from?”

“An Ian Miles, Sir!”

Miles crammed the headset on his head, quickly. “Ian,” he turned away from the soldiers around them and spoke quietly. “Are you alright? Is it mother? What’s wrong?”

“You’re an uncle!” His brother’s giddy voice was remarkably loud. “Again, I mean. Lena just gave birth!”

Miles frowned. “She was expecting?” He wasn’t sure how he had missed a development that large.

“Yup! And I’m a dad!” Ian switched gears, abruptly. “Look, you’re missing a lot up there, in Briggs. A lot of our letters are bouncing back from North Command opened. I figured if I said it was urgent, they’d put you through.”

“You’re right.” Miles glanced cautiously over his shoulder. “Girl or boy?”

“Girl! Absolutely the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen, and-”

“Ian, that’s great. Congratulations.” Hawkeye and Grumman were watching him curiously. “I have to go, but tell everyone hello for me. I’ll see if I can I figure out why your letters aren’t going through.”

“Wait!” Ian sounded suddenly, unnervingly, serious. “She has our grandfather’s eyes.”

Miles’ stomach dropped. “I’m sorry.”

“No, they’re beautiful! But,” Ian paused. “I guess I can’t say more on this line. We might head somewhere _warmer_ once it’s safe for Lena and the baby to travel.”

“I understand. Be safe, my brother.”

“You as well.” The line went dead.

Miles pulled off the headset and turned to General Grumman. “I apologize for the disturbance, Sir.”

“Not at all.” Grumman beamed. “We couldn’t hear much, but I understand congratulations are in order?”

“My brother and his wife just had a daughter.” Miles confirmed.

“How wonderful!”

“Congratulations, Sir.” Hawkeye gave him a warm smile. She turned to Grumman, all warmth dropping from her tone. “May I ask, Sir, why you called me up here?”

“All in good time, Lieutenant, all in good time.” Grumman beamed, jovially. “I’m having the training guns checked over. Once, there was a mix-up and an unfortunate major was shot with a live round.”

“Were they alright, Sir?!”

“Oh, yes.” Grumman was thoroughly unconcerned. “Merely grazed her, ah, posterior.” Miles tried to look as innocent and surprised as Hawkeye. That particular scar, then, was not the war wound Olivier made it out to be. “You can, understand, of course, why General Armstrong insists on so many checks.”

“Of course, Sir.” Hawkeye’s dedication to professionalism was truly remarkable.

“Oh, it looks like we’re ready!” Grumman indicated his aide who had returned, alone.

“Shouldn’t we wait for General Armstrong, Sir?” Miles frowned.

“Not at all!” Grumman dismissed him. “Are you ready, soldiers?!” He called to the sleepy crowd, who replied in the affirmative. “Excellent! Now, I know it’s traditional to do that old training game ‘capture the flag’, but that is so dull! I decided, this year, to mix it up a bit!” He was met with blank stares. “I’ve had my aide,” he continued, undeterred “hide away General Armstrong and Colonel Mustang! Your objective, then, is to find your corresponding commander and bring them back here before the other command does!”

“What’s to stop the General from marching her way back here?” A Briggs’ soldier called from the back. Miles couldn’t tell who it was, which was probably the point.

“Oh, we’ve taken some precautions to prevent that.”

“Great.” Someone else piped up. “They’re bear bait!” Miles tried to make out the speakers, irritated.

“Not to worry, my good man,” Grumman seemed to have no problem with the way he was being talked back to. “I’ve given them both flair guns!”

Another soldier started protest, but Miles jumped in. “Stand down! General Grumman is in command and we _will_ follow his orders.”

“Thank you, Major.” Grumman smiled at him. “Which brings me to my next point! In the absence of your usual commanders Major Miles will lead the Briggs Team, and Lieutenant Hawkeye will assume command of the Eastern Team!”

“Sir!” Hawkeye’s eyes were impossibly wide. “I’m just a lieutenant! Surely,-”

“Nonsense. It’s adjutant versus adjutant! It’s almost poetic.”

Miles gave her a sympathetic smile as he extended his hand. “Good luck, Lieutenant. May the best team win.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Let the games begin!” Grumman ordered, jovially.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...Hawkeye. The 03 anime totally implied that she had some far-back Ishvalan blood. Sorry, not sorry? 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	17. The Hawk's Eye

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit short, but Friday's will make up for it (I hope).
> 
> Happy Reading!

Miles wasted no time organizing his men and setting up a search grid. The Eastern Team was thrown off-kilter, but he was not about to make the mistake of underestimating them.

“General Grumman, Sir, who chose the location for our commanders to be hidden?” He asked.

“Majors Hughes and Armstrong.” Grumman indicated the men who were sitting just inside the command tent sipping steaming mugs. “They’re technically from Central, so I trusted them to be unbiased and scout it out last night.”

“Thank you, Sir. That is most informative.” Miles turned back to his men, sending them out in groups. Hughes and Armstrong were the opposite of unbiased, which was of great help to him.

“Why is that informative, Major?” Hawkeye appeared beside him, watching the troops set off.

“You do realize we’re opponents, don’t you?” He asked, fiddling with the radio Karley had set up for him.

“Of course, Sir.” Hawkeye sounded frustrated. “We have a common goal, though.”

“That we do, Lieutenant.” Miles smiled at her, not unkindly. “Which makes it all the more advantageous for me to not give you any aide.”

“You want to find your general as much as I want to find the Colonel.” Hawkeye told him, coolly. “The Briggs mountains are infamously treacherous, and you can pretend all you want, but you are as concerned as those soldiers who interrupted the assembly.”

“You’re very perceptive.” Miles was impressed. “Yes, this is the end of hybernation season, and if our commanders are restrained, or otherwise somehow unable to defend themselves they could well be in danger.”

“Why not work together, then?”

“Fair enough. But, once they are located, my men will use whatever means necessary to be the first to return.”

Hawkeye smiled. “As will mine.”

“To answer your earlier question,” Miles wondered if Hawkeye had something up her sleeve that he didn’t know about. “Major Hughes is very loyal to his good friend, Mustang. And Major Armstrong adores his older sister. They would have both wanted to secure a safe place, as well as one that didn’t risk prolonged exposure to the elements. They likely would have compromised on where they each considered easiest for their team to find.” He paused, and indicated the map Grumman had set up. “I’m still having these areas searched, but I’m focusing my efforts away from the border, the caves, and this avalanche-prone area.”

Hawkeye nodded. “Is there anywhere we can watch the search from?”

Miles pointed up at the towering fort. “The roof, if you’re not afraid of heights.” Hawkeye looked offended he would even suggest it.

-

Crouching on the windy rooftop, Miles found himself absently fiddling with key that he had been wearing around his neck ever since Olivier had given it to him. Every now and again he considered going and looking through her box, but even as she had pressed the key into his hand and told him he could access it whenever he wanted, he had told her he would wait until she was ready.

“What’s that, Sir?” Hawkeye, with her legendary sniper’s patience, had not moved since they had taken up their perch.

“What? Oh. It’s a key.” Miles tucked it back into his shirt.

“I can see that.” Hawkeye smirked, slightly. “I was just wondering what it opens, Sir. If that’s not too personal.”

Miles considered a minute. “Pandora’s box.”

“Ah.” There was silence, until a particularly violent gust of wind blew a lock of hair free from its clip. “I’m growing my hair out.” Hawkeye told him, apologetically, readjusting the clip. “It’s in that stubborn phase.”

“I understand.” Miles watched her struggle. “Do you need some help?”

Her cheeks pinked, slightly. “That’s alright, Sir.” She undid the clip and shook the hair back, regathering it. “My hair is a bit stiff,” she explained as she twisted a spiky lock up.

Miles only chuckled. “So’s mine, Lieutenant.”

She glanced up at him, and laughed. “I guess so. I never did know where it came from, my father had soft hair.” She looked oddly thoughtful. “Does it run in your family?”

“Yes.” Miles looked away, mind racing. He knew where his hair’s somewhat unusual texture came from, though he supposed there were other explanations for the lieutenant’s.

Hawkeye lifted her binoculars to her eyes. “I rather expected they would have made faster progress.” She noted.

“It may be spring, but the snow is still very high.” Miles told her, adjusting his own binoculars. “A slow search is to be expected.” He couldn’t help but secretly agree with her. He kept expecting the crackle of the radio, or to see the Briggs Bears begin making their way back.

“Unless we’re both wrong.” Hawkeye turned to him, a thoughtful look on her face.

“What?” He lowered his binoculars and cocked his head.

“Our strategy is predicated on the assumption Hughes and Armstrong wanted us to find them easily. I don’t know Armstrong very well, but Hughes enjoys a good joke.”

“You think they-” Struck by a sudden idea, he turned and retrained his binoculars on the base of a particularly avalanche-prone mountain on the other side of the fort. “Surely not!”

“What is it?” Hawkeye retrained her binoculars, too. “Oh! Alchemy marks!”

Miles lowered his binoculars, grimly. “Come on, Lieutenant. We’re going to have to do this ourselves. That’s contested territory, a whole squad risks too much exposure.”

“Yes, Sir.” Hawkeye rose and started toward the door.

“Come here, Lieutenant.” Miles opened a scout’s box and began rifling through a storage crate within. “I know a faster way.”

Hawkeye peered into the crate. “Climbing gear, Sir?”

“More like rappelling.” Miles began pulling on a harness. “Have you done it before?”

“We had a unit on it at the Academy.” Hawkeye took a second harness and began to put it on. “But, that wall is nowhere near as high as the Fort, Sir.”

Miles nodded. “I know.” They finished gearing up and attached their ropes to pulleys on the side of the scout’s boxes. They backed up to the edge of the roof. “Are you ready?” Miles asked, glancing at the nervous Lieutenant.

“Yes, Sir.” She lied, glancing over the edge.

Miles smiled, wryly. “I hate heights.” He took a deep breath and stepped, backwards, off the roof. It was exhilarating, the closest thing to flying Miles had ever experienced. Nevertheless, he was glad when his feet touched the snowy ground. Hawkeye landed lightly beside him. They made their way to the suspicious snow pile, weapons drawn.

“Have you considered that this might be a trap?” Miles asked the younger woman, calmly. “I won’t ask you to endanger yourself unnecessarily.”

“I have, Sir.” Hawkeye was equally calm. “I will not wait behind, if that’s what you were about to suggest.”

“So long as you’re aware of the risk.”

They were silent for the rest of their nearly forty minute journey. They reached the snow mound, and surveyed it. It was a rounded, dome-like, heap only about the size of a car. Dark smudges marked the crisp white snow.

“Definitely alchemy marks.” Hawkeye told him, touching the smudges. “This isn’t very large, though. Do you really think they could be inside?”

“Only one way to find out.” Miles raised his foot and kicked. The powdery snow crumbled inward. There was a noise of protest. They tore into the snow, both wishing they had thought to bring shovels. The snow crumbled away revealing a doorway into a sort of igloo.

“Took you long enough!” Mustang and Olivier were seated in the middle of the igloo, back to back, a thick rope binding them together. Their feet were also bound, and Olivier had a thick rag tied around her mouth, gagging her. She was glaring up at them, and Miles was glad she couldn’t actually kill with her eyes.

“Sir!” Miles and Hawkeye rushed in to their commanders. Hawkeye started sawing at the rope binding them together, and Miles crouched over Olivier, carefully cutting at her gag.

“Why aren’t you gagged, Colonel?” He asked, trying not to sound too angry.

“I promised to keep my mouth shut.” Mustang told him. “General Loudmouth here was chewing out Grumman’s men so loudly they were afraid all of Drachma could hear her.”

Olivier spit out the gag as soon as she was able. “You did not keep your mouth shut, you insipid little rat! All you did was talk! And talk! I thought my ears were going to start bleeding!” There was murder in her eyes.

Miles glanced at Hawkeye, and she nodded. They would have to separate their commanders to avoid a bloodbath. Hawkeye had finished with the large rope, and they moved onto their commanders’ feet.

“Can you stand?” Miles asked, slipping an arm under Olivier’s shoulders.

“Not in here.” Olivier glared. Miles nodded, and pulled her out, crouching to fit through the doorway. Outside, he straightened and supported Olivier as she cautiously tested her footing.

“My feet are asleep.” She told him, leaning heavily. “I’m stiff and cold, but I think I’ll be able to walk in a minute.”

“Take your time, Sir.” Miles rather enjoyed her leaning on him, needing him. All too soon she would regain the feeling in her legs and he would have to let her go.

“You’re going to have to carry me, Lieutenant.” Mustang was leaning on Hawkeye, rubbing his legs melodramatically. “I think it’s frostbite!”

“You’re too heavy for me, Sir.” Hawkeye sounded frustrated, though there was a glint of amusement in her eyes.

Mustang crumpled to the ground. “Then you’ll have to drag me.”

“For pity’s sake! Come here, Lieutenant.” Olivier snarled. Hawkeye hastened to obey, and Olivier stretched out an arm. “Help me walk. Miles, take the idiot."

“Yes, Sir.” Miles eased her onto Hawkeye’s shoulder, and released her, a bit sadly. He marched over to the crumpled soldier, and with one swift movement hefted the man over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Hey!” Mustang protested. “This is not what I meant.”

“Oof.” Miles huffed, straining under the Colonel’s weight. “Sir, you’re plainly wounded and that means we need to get you back to base as quickly as possible. This just happens to be the most effective method.”

“I-”

“Shut it, Mustang.” Olivier and Hawkeye had already started walking back to the fort. “Or I’ll run you through." She grimaced, "Just as soon as I can stand on my own.” She added, giving an odd hop, and rubbing her leg.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, I love comments!


	18. Is this Treason?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a very long chapter. Enjoy?
> 
> Warning for this chapter: Discussion of past rape.

Grumman recalled the teams with a little too much glee for Miles’ taste. “Excellent job, you two!” He congratulated them, cheerfully. “I knew you could do it!”

“Sir, why did you select me for this?” There was so much anger in Hawkeye’s voice they all froze, even the doctor checking Mustang’s feet for frostbite.

“Ah.” Grumman glanced around the command tent. “Major Armstrong, will you go relieve Lieutenant Buccaneer, and my good doctor, will you go check the incoming troops?” Looking relieved the two dismissed soldiers darted from the tent.

“I don’t need preferential treatment from you, Sir!” Hawkeye was glaring, her hands balled tightly at her sides. Mustang and Hughes exchanged nervous glances. Miles peered at Olivier who was pulling her boots back on. She, alone, seemed unsurprised by the outburst.

“Not at all, Lieutenant, I-”

“Hawkeye, perhaps this isn’t the best time-” Mustang started.

Hawkeye cut them both off. “You can’t just waltz into my life and start trying to win me over!”

“I-” Grumman started again.

“Hey, what did I miss, Sirs?” Buccaneer stepped into the tent.

At precisely the same moment, Hawkeye snarled. “You disowned my mother!”

“Okay, that was not what I was expecting.” Buccaneer, stared. “I’m going to go-”

“No, stay.” Grumman ordered. “There’s more going on here than any of you realize.” He took a deep breath. “Riza, I looked for her. I really did. She didn’t want to see me, not the other way around. I didn’t even know you existed until your file crossed my desk a few years ago. I’m sorry, I thought-” He broke off, voice trembling. “I’m sorry.”

Hawkeye stared, disbelieving.

“Here, Riza.” Hughes rose and wrapped his arms around her. She shrugged him off. Buccaneer cleared his throat, nervously. Mustang was staring, slack-jawed.

Olivier crossed her arms, and snorted. “Come on, Hawkeye. You’ve known for a while, don’t play the victim.”

“What?” They all stared at her.

“You could have confronted him as soon as you figured it out.” Olivier clarified. “And we could have all been spared this scene.”

“I assumed he wanted nothing to do with me.” Hawkeye was red.

“I did!” Grumman protested. “I thought you wanted nothing to do with me!” They stared at each other.

“Touching. Really.” Olivier drawled. “Why did you want us all here, Grumman? This is an excuse to talk to all of us without being overheard, isn’t it?”

“What is the purpose of your investigation?” Olivier stared him down, angry.

“To see if you are a competent leader.” Grumman told her, simply. “You’ve surrounded yourself with controversy.”

“Controversy surrounded me.” Olivier clarified. “What do you want?”

“There are several threads that are tied to each other, and pulling the wrong one might topple the whole nation.” Grumman was semi-cryptic. “I need to untangle them and determine if you’re a threat to our nation.”

“How?”

“Tell me how you got to be Commander of Briggs.”

She snorted. “Tch! What do you want to hear, Sir? Plots? Tales of murder and seduction? I climbed the ranks the same way as anyone, contrary to popular Central rumors.”

“Then you and your men will have no problems answering my questions.” He paused. “I expect total honesty from each of you.” He regarded each soldier, in turn. “In return, I promise I will not expose your secrets, so long as they are not a danger to our security.” He looked directly at Miles. “You have what you need to destroy me, so we might as well level the playing field.”

Olivier sighed. “Fair enough, old man.” She turned to Miles and Buccaneer. “Answer his questions, and be honest. If he has a problem with me, he can be responsible for Briggs. See how we fare, then.”

“Now, everyone take a seat, let’s make a circle.” They all shuffled around, obediently. “Now,” he mused, “where to begin? Ah, yes, Lieutenant Buccaneer, I think.”

“Me, Sir?” Buccaneer looked confused. “I’m not even sure why I’m here.”

“You and me, both.” Mustang muttered.

“Yes, you.” Grumman ignored Mustang. “Tell us how you lost your arm.”

Miles snorted. “Are you serious, Sir? That was over his sister’s honor.”

“Quite.” Grumman turned to Buccaneer who was turning pink. “Please tell us.”

“You remember, Miles, that I said I caught my brother-in-law with a woman who wasn’t my sister.” Buccaneer looked miserable, and Miles frowned. “I never told you what they were doing.”

“I’m not a child.” Miles told him, wryly. “I caught the drift.”

“No.” Buccaneer clenched his metal fist. “You caught what I wanted you to think. My brother-in-law was Colonel Morgan, if that means anything to you all.” He gestured to the group. “He was the commander of the Twelfth Infantry division outpost on the Cretan border.”

The headline Miles had spied in Olivier lockbox flickered before his vision, and he cursed himself for not taking the time to read the article.

“I’ll never understand why my sister married him. He was an abusive, sexist, drunkard, who didn’t deserve to wear a uniform, let alone command an outpost. He knew how to charm his superiors and get things from people, but he was incredibly hard on his subordinates, especially those who he felt were in, some way, inferior. There was a woman, a Lt. Colonel, at the time-”

All the eyes in the room snapped to Olivier who was scraping at some mud on the bottom of her boot. She didn’t look up, and Buccaneer continued. “Morgan especially hated her. More than anyone else, I think. She was just one rank below him, and he knew she would surpass him. She was a phenomenal soldier. I’m not flattering, Sir,” he clarified as Olivier’s eyebrows rose. “I’m telling the truth. You still are phenomenal.”

Miles looked from his best friend to his wife, confused and hurt. He had had no idea they had known each other before Briggs. Olivier was being uncharacteristically reserved, seeming almost ashamed as she continued to scrape at her boot. Nothing about this story was adding up to a picture he liked.

“Please go on.” Grumman prompted.

“I was a Warrant Officer, back then. I didn’t really get any special treatment from the Colonel, but he gave me my space. I saw what was happening, though. He hated Armstrong so much, he wanted her dead. He wasn’t exactly subtle about it. An outpost like that,” Buccaneer explained, “isn’t anything like this. Or even like the battlefields in Ishval. It’s a closed community, where anything goes so long as-” he hesitated, “the Cretan death tolls met the requirements. Something was wrong there, not just what we were doing. I don’t know how to describe it, but the very air just felt _wrong_.”

“You could feel it in your bones.” Olivier added, filling in where Buccaneer was at a loss. “The earth just felt...tired. I thought maybe it was just me, but there was definitely something. Sometimes, the shadows would feel-” She shook her head, dismissing the thought.

“Alive.” Buccaneer nodded. “We used to tell the newbies it was the souls of the Cretans coming for revenge. Made it easier to bear.”

“I think you two might be getting a little off topic.” Grumman interjected. Olivier shrugged and returned to her boots.

“Right. Colonel Morgan. He was always shorting her rations, bribing the doctors to clear her for duty, when she should have been in the hospital-” Miles remembered the report he’d found and suppressed a shudder. “Giving her double, or even triple shifts.” Buccaneer continued, staring at his hands. “He couldn’t keep her down, though.” “Buccaneer.” Olivier spoke, without looking up, voice cold as ice. “Skip to the part where you lost your arm.”

“Right. Yes, Sir.” Buccaneer cleared his throat. “So, one day she did something to make him mad, I don’t remember what-” he glanced at Olivier, continuing when he was sure she wasn’t going to remind him. “Morgan ordered her to go and dig graves for all the Cretan soldiers we still needed to kill to meet our quota. No food, no rest, until she was done.”

Mustang interrupted for the first time, head in his hands. “How many?”

“What, Sir?”

“How many was your quota? And,” he continued through gritted teeth, “why would you even have a kill quota?”

“I don’t know, Sir.” Buccaneer looked remorseful. “I really don’t. We were told it was necessary to keep certain Cretan superstitions alive, therefore making them too afraid to continue warring with us.” He shook his head, “I think we were something like a hundred from our quota, though.”

“One hundred and twenty-seven.” Oliver had finished scraping and was now buffing her boots. “There were supposed to be one hundred and twenty-seven graves.”

“One person couldn’t _possibly_ -” Hughes interjected, horrified.

“Please, let him continue.” Grumman shushed them. His face was dark, and he looked every bit as troubled as the others.

“He’s right.” Buccaneer told them. “It was impossible. Any one else would have quit. She just kept going, though. She was throwing up from the exertion, her hands were covered in blood from the shovelling. Through the night, she just kept going.” Buccaneer addressed Olivier, quietly. “Why didn’t you just quit?”

Olivier’s hands, clutching her polishing rag, were trembling, but she didn’t answer.

“I went out the next morning, and she was out of water. I wasn’t supposed to, but I went to get her more. While I was filling her canteen, Morgan headed out to check her progress.” Buccaneer was trembling, now; Rage evident on his face. “She collapsed.”

Hawkeye closed her eyes. Mustang and Hughes were both staring at the ground. Grumman was clutching his mug of tea so hard Miles thought it would snap. Miles kept his face neutral, but his stomach was churning. He wanted, simultaneously, to shout and to sob, to scream at Olivier and Buccaneer for concealing this from him and to curse himself for not taking her up on her offer to delve into the rest of the box.

Buccaneer continued, voice heavy. “When I got there Morgan was-” he stopped and shook his head.

“They understand.” Olivier spoke, sounding detached and cold. She lifted her head, at last. Her face was cold, but her eyes were pained. “His actions so offended you, you attacked your own brother-in-law.” She turned to Grumman. “Are you satisfied, Sir?”

“Not at all.” Grumman sounded horrified. “I’m sorry-”

“Save your pity.” Olivier snapped. “I don’t need it.”

“Sir.” Hughes interjected. “This explains the inconsistencies in the report. Perhaps, we should-”

“If you have other questions, ask them.” Olivier snarled. “You can’t humiliate me any further.”

“That was not my intention-” Grumman started.

“General,” Hughes said, quite gently and somberly, “please don’t think this is your fault. I deal with cases like yours all the time-”

“Just ask your questions!” Olivier slammed her fist on the table. There was a heavy silence.

“Very well.” Grumman sighed. “Which of you actually killed Colonel Morgan? I had assumed, it was you General, and you coerced a Warrant Officer to cover for you.” Olivier scowled at him. “Who said either of us killed him? He was declared MIA.” Grumman’s only response was an unimpressed stare. “Fine. The details are a little hazy, but I believe it was Buccaneer.”

“That’s correct, Sir.” Buccaneer was slumped, uncharacteristically burdened. “That was not my intent, but he left me no choice. I gave you some of the water I brought, and you revived enough to-”

“Help you bury him.” Olivier remembered. “Then you carried me back to the base?”

Buccaneer nodded. “I woke up in the hospital a few days later, with no arm-infection, they told me-and you were running the outpost. You came and told me a story, the one we would go on to tell the investigators from Western Command. They sent me home to recuperate, and get automail. It took three years, but I was finally ready for duty and I was sent up here, to Briggs.”

“Per my request.” Olivier nodded. “They never fully believed us, but they gave us promotions anyway.”

Grumman shook his head, wearily. “The inner workings of high command are a mystery to us all.” He changed tactics quite suddenly. “If you are successful in becoming Fuhrer what are your plans? This goes for you, too, Mustang.”

“I’d rebuild Ishval.” Mustang shocked them all by speaking.

“You’d _what?_ ” Miles interjected. “Why?”

“You were safe and sound here when the war was actually happening.” Mustang glared at him. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Miles took a breath. “Try me.” He pulled his glasses off and met Mustang’s eyes. Mustang gasped and stared, speechless.

“Miles.” Olivier sounded remarkably normal, if a bit exasperated. It was almost frightening. “Someday we’re going to have a talk about how you keep a secret.”

“You’re Ishvalan!” Mustang whispered.

“Only a quarter.” Miles corrected, gaze unwavering.

“This is why you-” he turned to Hughes, his question hanging in the air, unspoken. Hughes nodded. “I’m sorry.” Mustang turned back to Miles. “I am _so_ sorry.”

“I don’t need your pity, either.” Miles put his glasses back on. “Why would you, the Hero of Ishval, the very human weapon that destroyed my grandfather’s homeland rebuild it?”

“Atonement.” Mustang seemed to be struggling for the words. “If we want to destroy the cycle of hate, and begin anew we have to make reparations. It’s a kind of equivalent exchange.”

“Alchemists.” Olivier scoffed. “You can’t undo what you did, you’re fooling yourselves with that naive rhetoric.”

“Perhaps.” Mustang’s voice shook, slightly. “But all I can do is try.”

“What would you do, then?” Grumman turned to Olivier.

“Have _you_ institutionalized.” Olivier finished polishing her boots and turned instead to her sword. “Actually.” She turned the blade calmly in her hands, inspecting it for damages. “I’m going to destroy the government. Rebuild the country from the top down. Cease this worthless bloodshed, hold our current leaders accountable. I’ll take down anyone who stands in my way, but I am going to cleanse this country.”

“You sound like a fanatic.” Mustang told her. “The people will never accept you.”

Olivier snorted. “They accepted the genocide of the Ishvalan people, they accepted the lie that we needed to kill Cretan civilians every month to keep them afraid. They even accepted this ‘peace treaty’ with Drachma They’re fools. The people will accept anything.”

“You’ll never be Fuhrer if you think that.”

“Because the people would prefer a ‘hero’ hellbent on destroying his own work? Who will apologize for every war and every hard decision? You’re soft, Mustang.”

“Alright, you two.” Grumman interjected. “You’ve each said your piece. I still have questions.” He paused. “I realize I made a mistake in demanding total honesty, if you feel you can’t answer for personal reasons, you are free to do so. Of course, if I suspect you are lying to me, I will not be so pleasant.”

“You’re a little late on that, old man.” Olivier muttered darkly.

“Would you mind putting that sword away?” Hughes inquired. “You’re making me nervous.”

Olivier gave him a wolfish smirk, but returned the weapon to its sheath. Apparently incapable of sitting still, she pulled a knife from concealment and began cleaning that. Hughes’ face indicated that didn’t make him any less nervous, but he remained quiet.

“Sir, other than a gross invasion of privacy does this meeting have an actual purpose?” Hawkeye spoke up, still angry, but much calmer.

“I’m getting there.” Grumman told her, gently. “I have to be sure first.”

“Sure of what?” Miles demanded.

“You’ll see. Calm down, all of you, please. Mustang, where did you learn your flame alchemy?”

Mustang made an odd noise. “I think you know that, Sir.”

“I have my suspicions.”

“From Berthold Hawkeye, Sir, your son-in-law.”

“You expect me to believe he handed that knowledge to a soldier?” Grumman narrowed his eyes at him.

“I did that, Sir. I had his research. It’s been destroyed.” Hawkeye spoke with chilling finality.

“I can attest to that.” Hughes piped up.

“Very well.” Grumman nodded, apparently satisfied.

“Are you serious?” Olivier snarled. “You’re going to just accept that after-”

“Don’t take me for a fool, General.” Grumman cut her off. “I know you still have secrets upon secrets hidden away. I can delve into those, but I don’t want to be here all night.”

Olivier sparkled darkly, but made no reply.

“I have one last question, for all of you.” He looked around the tent, impressively. “If I said the government was on the verge of crumbling, that the tides are turning, and that something dark is seething under the surface, what would you say?”

There was silence, and in the dimly lit tent they all avoided eye contact.

“What you’re saying borders on treason.” Olivier broke the silence. Miles watched her, curiously, he knew she suspected Blackburn of the very things Grumman was suggesting. She made no mention of him, though.

“You’re all loose canons.” Grumman regarded them. “You’re all either on the cusp of treason, or already on the other side.” He looked at Buccaneer, and Olivier “You’re killers and schemers,” his gaze continued around to Miles and Mustang, “outsiders and dreamers”, his gaze settled on Hawkeye and Hughes, “followers and lovers.”

“What are you saying?” Mustang asked, head in his hands once more. “Are you planning a coup?”

“Not yet.” Grumman smiled, darkly. “I hope it never comes to that. But, if it does, what say you? Can I call on you? Or am I going to be turned in to High Command?”

“I’m not following you anywhere, old man.” Olivier muttered, “But I stand between the people of this nation and total destruction everyday. If one day, as you believe, that threat comes from within, I’ll stand there, too.”

“I stand with General Armstrong.” Miles told them, without missing a beat.

“As do I.” Buccaneer spoke for the first time since concluding his story.

“We’re political opponents.” Mustang regarded them, “I’ll fight alongside you for the good of this nation, any day, though.”

“I follow the Colonel.” Hawkeye gave a slight, wry, smile. “But you already knew that.”

“I’ll always follow the good.” Hughes told them. "Whoever that may be.”

“So, it’s agreed.” Grumman put down his mug, calmly. “If the government ever falls, we’ll be there to catch it.”

“So it is.” Olivier agreed. They sat awhile, in silence, each trying to process what had just happened. They all had enough information to assure the destruction of the others in the tent, and all were still clinging to secrets. They were all liars, and they all knew it. Olivier rose. “While I still have some dignity, I’m going to go command my fort.”

“I need to talk to General Grumman.” Hawkeye spoke. “Can I count on you to give us some time?”

“Sure.” Olivier waved, as she made her way to the door of the tent. “No one will miss him, anyway.” She stopped in the doorway, abruptly. “Alex.” She gripped the hilt of her sword.

“What?”

“You can’t tell Alex.” She turned to Hughes. “Any of this.”

Hughes nodded. “I know.”

Olivier turned again, and slipped from the tent. Miles and Buccaneer followed her, without looking back. A safe distance from the tent, Miles grabbed her arm.

“Wait. We need to talk. Tonight.”

“I know.” Her expression was guarded.

“All of us.” Miles indicated the three of them.

She blinked at him. “I don’t think Buccaneer will fit in the closet.”

“Woah.” Buccaneer interjected. “I don’t do closets.”

Miles sighed. “Just come down tonight, we won’t need the closet if Buccaneer is part of the conversation.”

Olivier nodded. “Very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I don't want to play into the trope that strong woman are created from trauma. I tried to convey that I think Olivier, and women like her, are strong regardless, and that strength comes from her/them, not anything anyone else does. And that's true for real life, too.
> 
> As always, please comment! Your reviews are like little rays of sunshine to me!


	19. Kind

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is lighter and I hope you enjoy it!

It was remarkable, Miles observed at dinner, how well they all covered their inner turmoil. He was accustomed to the fact he was constantly hiding, as was most of Briggs. But, the soldiers from the East were every bit as good at as they were. Watching them all laughing and talking, acting for all the world, as though they hadn’t each had painful secrets exposed, and agreed to help a madman overthrow the government, Miles was impressed and terrified.

Miles kept an eye on Olivier, discretely, throughout the evening. He wondered why she hadn’t mentioned her suspicions about Blackburn and the leak, but he supposed she didn’t fully trust Grumman. Near the end of the meal, as the soldiers were getting more and more relaxed, Hawkeye approached her, her face set resolutely. “General Armstrong, may I seek a private audience, Sir?”

Olivier regarded the younger woman over the top of her glass for a minute, curiosity and annoyance equally present in her eyes. “This better be worth my time, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.” Hawkeye didn’t waver.

Olivier nodded, and set her drink aside. “Very well, Lieutenant. Follow me.” She swept from the room followed by Hawkeye. Twenty minutes later Olivier returned alone. She ordered the rest of the men to return to their barracks as coldly as ever, but seemed to Miles calmer than she had been before.

\---

Miles sat, cross-legged, on his bunk and waited in the dark. He should have been sleeping, they still had two more days of war games, after all, but his mind was still racing, turning over and over what had transpired earlier. Buccaneer had, without speaking to him, turned in when they had gone to lights out. The absence of snoring, however, told Miles he was just as restless.

_“Let me go!” Miles screamed as the older boy pinned his arm behind his back. “Stop it!” The ground seemed to rush up at his face, there was a dull thud and he tasted blood. Cruel laughter rang out and then a man’s voice interjected._

_“Hey! Knock it off!” Someone pulled him to his feet. “You boys ought to be ashamed of yourselves, picking on a little kid like this.”_

_“Beat it!” A second voice snapped. “Before I beat you!” The boys ran off._

_“You okay, kid?” Miles wiped at his face and nodded at the man now kneeling before him. “Hey,” the man murmured surprised, “It’s Torin’s kid.”_

_“Really?” Two pairs of red eyes peered at him. “What are you doing way over here?”_

_“I-I went to get t-the bread-” he hiccupped, “b-but-”_

_“It’s okay, kid.” They looked at each other, “Let’s just take him to Torin. Come on, kiddo.” He followed them down to the construction sight Father worked at. He ran eagerly up to Father as soon as he saw him._

_“Miles?! What are you doing here?” His coworkers gave him a hasty explanation, while Father used his handkerchief to clean his face. “Well,” he sighed, ruffling Miles’ dandelion-like shock of white hair, “I’m going to get a friend of mine to take you home, okay? Then you’re going to tell Mother that you got lost. Don’t tell her about the boys. Understand?”_

_“Father!” He protested. “That’s lying!”_

_Father sighed, looking frustrated for a minute. Then he smiled. “You’re a good son. Listen, sometimes, the truth hurts people, and little lies can be-well, not_ right _-but kind.”_

_“How can a lie be kind?”_

_“Your mother would be upset. So, let’s be kind to your mother and not tell her, okay?”_

_“O-okay.”_

-

The door opened, nearly soundlessly, and shut again. Miles waited a beat before switching on his lamp. Olivier shrugged off her coat, revealing thermals, and tossed it over Buccaneer’s foot locker. She took a step further into the room, stockinged feet soundless, and then stopped. Buccaneer sat up, somewhat self-conscious in his own thermals. The three of them looked at each other, in that odd sideways way that avoided eye contact.

“I understand,” Olivier spoke, addressing Miles’ foot locker, more than Miles himself, “that you’re angry.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “I know that you must see me as damaged-”

“No!” Miles leapt from his bunk, reaching out his arms.

Olivier did something Miles had never seen before; she flinched visibly, preparing to be struck. Her whole body tensed with the effort of holding herself back, countering her instinct to attack first. Miles froze; he could hear Buccaneer holding his breath.

“No.” He repeated, softer. “No, you’re not. Don’t ever-” He shook his head and stepped towards her cautiously. He reached out and cupped her face gently. “Hey, look at me.” He tilted her face toward him, registering the pain and confusion she was so uncharacteristically struggling to conceal. “I love you.” He whispered. “Nothing is ever going to change that.”

Olivier stared up at him, “But-”

“Shh.” Miles pressed a finger to her lips. “Nothing. Ever.”

“You-” She tried again. Miles silenced her with his own lips, this time. She froze, stiff and uncertain, and then slowly began to relax. The room began to melt away, warmth spreading through him-

“Ahem.” Buccaneer cleared his throat, loudly. “ _Sirs_.”

They pulled away.

“Sorry.” Olivier muttered, though who she was speaking to was a little unclear. Miles took her hand and led her to sit beside him on his bunk. He expected her to shrug him off when he put his arm around her, but she leaned into him.

“So.” Buccaneer was pink-faced and apparently fascinated by the floor. “What did Lieutenant Hawkeye want, Sir?”

“Relax, Buccaneer.” Olivier ordered, sounding amused. “No one’s in uniform here.” Buccaneer snorted. “The lieutenant had proof of her story.”

“Which was?” Miles asked, surprised.

“For me to know, and you not.” Olivier’s response was terse. “That’s not the point, though. You wanted to speak to us?” She twisted to look up at Miles.

Miles nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“What did you want me to say?” Buccaneer asked. “‘Oh, by the by, I killed our old commander’? Initially, there wasn’t any reason to tell you, and then when I found out about you two, I assumed she would have told you. If she didn’t,” he shrugged, “then it’s not really my place.”

“You could have at least told me you knew each other.” Miles scowled at him. “And,” he turned to Olivier “you picked him, specifically, to be my roommate and you never gave me a reason why. I find out, now, you wanted a, what, babysitter for me?”

“I wanted someone I trusted to protect you.” Olivier seemed surprised. “I thought that was obvious.”

“So, you picked the man who murdered his brother-in-law?”

“I picked the one who stood up for me, when no one else would.” She countered, pushing away from him. “I knew he wouldn’t stand by and let you be attacked.” They glared at each other.

Miles found he couldn’t hold her gaze, and dropped his eyes with a sigh. He rubbed the back of his neck, uncomfortably. “I’m sorry.” He sighed again. “I wish you had trusted me.”

“I gave you this.” Olivier reached over and pulled the key, on its chain, out from under his shirt.

“Would it have mattered?” Miles asked, “if I had looked through it?”

Olivier shook her head. “Not exactly. There was a letter, that I never sent, to Buccaneer. It’s in my coat pocket,” she indicated the coat flung over the foot locker, “if you want to read it.” Buccaneer seemed relieved to have something else to do, and hastily began digging through her coat’s pockets. “It never said what happened, though.”

“Here it is.” Buccaneer held out the letter, still folded.

“No. You keep it.” Miles told him, after a minute of deliberation. “It was for you.” Buccaneer and Olivier exchanged glances, then looked back to him. “I wish you would have told me, but I understand why you didn’t. It isn’t fair for me to be angry. I’m sorry, you’ve done _nothing_ wrong.”

He pulled Olivier, firmly, back into his arms and kissed the top of her head. Buccaneer made a face and then turned to reading the letter. With Buccaneer distracted, Miles leaned down to whisper to Olivier. “I really am sorry, my love. You’re incredible and I wish no one had ever hurt you. If he weren’t already dead, I’d kill him myself. Not that you’d need me to.” He added, hastily. “But, still-”

“I know.”

He sighed. “You didn’t tell me, because you wanted to be kind, right?”

She smirked and kissed him.

\---

Miles didn’t remember getting sleepy. He definitely didn’t remember reclining with Olivier draped over him like a lopsided, heavy blanket. Nevertheless, he jerked awake when something ice cold touched his face.

“I don’t want to know.” Buccaneer’s voice came from above. Miles’ eyes opened uncertainly, and he tried to sit up. A heavy weight pinned him down.

“Ow.” Miles winced at the crick in his neck, likely a result of sleeping halfway upright. “What on earth?” He spit something odd and fibery out. Hair. He reached up to pull the rest of it away from his face and realized his shoulder was damp. He looked down, confused, and the pieces of the puzzle came together. Olivier was sprawled on top of him, her long hair spreading in all directions, snoring slightly, and drooling heavily on his shoulder.

“It’s ten minutes to roll call.” Buccaneer told him, frantically. His automail hand was still on Miles’ face. “She has to get out of here.”

“Right.” Miles tapped her shoulder. “Olivier, love, wake up.” She gave a slightly louder snore. “Come on.” Miles shook her. She groaned and buried her face further in his shoulder. “Come on, wake up.” She snored once more. “Here, give me your hand.” Miles reached for Buccaneer’s cold automail.

“No way!” Buccaneer jumped back. “I am not waking the sleeping dragon.”

“Tiger.” Miles corrected, without thinking.

“What-Nevermind. I really don’t want to know.”

“Do you want to wake her up, or do you want the Hall Commander to?” Miles demanded.

“Fine.” Buccaneer reached over, nervously. “Tell my family I loved them.” He pressed his icy fingers to the back of Olivier’s neck. She bolted upright and punched him in the gut, eyes still closed. “Oof. Ow.” Buccaneer doubled over.

“You better have a good reason for that, Lieutenant.” Olivier told him, darkly. She blinked her eyes open slowly and smiled sleepily down at Miles. “Good morning, love, why are you in my-? Oh no!” She leapt off the bunk. “No, no, no!” She grabbed her coat, and began throwing it over her shoulders, hastily. She bolted from the room.

Miles pulled himself out of bed, and began throwing on his uniform. Technically, not belonging to any particular squad, he was exempt from the morning roll call and barrack inspection, but he always kept his barrack up to snuff. Anything out of the ordinary risked suspicion.

“Here.” Buccaneer started smoothing Miles’ bunk. “Good thing you slept on top of the blankets, Sir.” He checked the angles of the hospital corners.

“ROLL CALL! TEN-HUT!” The Hall Commander’s voice boomed down the hall. Buccaneer gave him a last nervous glance, and scrambled out of the room joining all the other soldiers who were flinging open their doors and lining the halls at attention.

“Moving slow this morning, are we?” The commander boomed. “Sir!” He sounded startled. Miles could practically hear him snap to attention. He adjusted his coat, and slipped out to come to attention on the other side of the doorframe as Buccaneer.

“This hall has been receiving unusually low marks, Captain.” Olivier’s chilly voice startled Miles who peeked over, curiously. She had buttoned her coat over her pajamas, but there was no hiding the fact she was not wearing boots. Miles just hoped no one would look at her feet. “I came to see why.”

“Sir!” The nervous captain saluted her. “I apologize for the low marks-”

“Silence, Captain.” Olivier cut him off. “I demand perfection, not apologies.”

“Yes, Sir!”

“Let’s not give the Eastern soldiers any reason to look down on us.” Olivier glared at the hall commander.

“Yes, Sir!”

“Tch!” Olivier turned and swept away, hair flowing gracefully behind her. “I expect today’s results to be perfect, soldier.”

“Yes, Sir!” The captain barked one more time. As soon as she was out of sight he turned to Miles with a sigh of relief. “Was she-” He stopped, perplexed. “Were those pajamas?”

Miles kept his face perfectly blank. “I don’t know what you mean, Captain.”

“Right.” The captain shook his head, and turned to his men. “You heard the General!” Miles allowed himself an internal sigh of relief as the hall commander marched off to finish inspections.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Thoughts?
> 
> P.S. I don't love this chapter: I don't feel it's my best work, and I apologize.


	20. Thin Ice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is extra long because it's the 20th, and because, why not? 
> 
> In this chapter:
> 
> Miles is a mother hen, Buccaneer questions everything, and Olivier is a horrible patient. 
> 
> (Also, I have a tenuous grasp of physics. Sorry.)

Miles was unsurprised by the day’s abrupt temperature drop, it was spring in Briggs, afterall. The soldiers from the East, however, were taken aback and miserable.

“How is it possible to get any colder?” Catalina complained to Hawkeye between shivers. Hawkeye gave her a stern look, silently reminding her they were lining up for the day’s game, and were meant to be silent. “Look, my hands are cracking.” Catalina continued, pulling off her gloves to show Hawkeye her chapped hands.

“Mine, too. Shh.” Hawkeye whispered through gritted teeth. “Great, now we’re in trouble.” Miles had broken away from his inspection of the Briggs troops to approach them.

“Here.” Miles reached into his pocket and produced a tin. “Balm. We make it here in Briggs.”

“Thanks, Sir!” Catalina dipped her hand in the tin gratefully, and began rubbing the balm into her skin. “Take some, Hawkeye! It’s great.”

“Go on.” He held the tin out to her. “You’re going to need it out there, today.” Looking uncertain, Hawkeye pulled off her gloves and took some.

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Mouth and nose, too.” He advised. “The wind will do a number on your skin.”

Catalina reached up to follow his advice, but jerked back at the smell. “Eurgh! What’s in this?”

Miles contemplated the “waste not want not” attitude that pervaded Briggs, as well as their seasonal bear butchering. “Best not to dwell on it.” He told her, with a slight smirk. “Just trust me.” Regarding him suspiciously, Catalina and Hawkeye dabbed the balm on their faces. “Good luck today.” He told them, recapping his balm and returning it to his pocket.

“Thank you, Sir!” The two lieutenants saluted together as he walked away. Mimicking his beloved commander, Miles raised a single hand and waved without looking back. 

\---

Miles was watching the blustery sky, checking for any indicators the weather would shift suddenly into a spring blizzard. He wasn’t paying as much attention to the games below as he perhaps should have, but from his vantage point in a twenty-foot evergreen he could see the objective just beyond Brigg’s infamous Frozen Falls, and more importantly, where Olivier was crouching under a white snow blanket ready to gun down any Eastern soldiers who dared approach her fortress. He had her back and that was all that really mattered.

**CRACK.** The sound of ice breaking rung out like a gunshot and he twisted to look down at the Falls. Alex Armstrong was making his way across the frozen river, a foolish mistake a Briggs’ man would never had made, but understandable given the cold. Only a Northerner would know that under the ice cover the river was very much alive, a deadly undertow carving out and hollowing the seemingly impenetrable ice into a thin veneer.

“Alex!” Olivier leapt up, snow blanket falling away. Her scream frightened Miles more than the ice cracking; she sounded terrified. Miles scrambled down from his perch, cursing the thick branches that scratched him on his way down. Olivier blew her whistle, once, twice, three times, the short, shrill, blasts signalling danger. “Alex, get down!” She was running down the hill toward the frozen river, shedding her coat as she went. She knelt at the edge of the river bank. “Alex, lie down!”

The major had frozen, watching the cracks in the ice spiral out around him. He looked up, at his sister and nodded. Slowly, he began to lower himself to the ice. It made no difference, he was too heavy. The ice shattered beneath him and he dropped out of sight. Olivier wasted no time, peeling off her boots and and sword and tossing them on the bank. She stretched out, sliding off the bank and across the river on her stomach.

“Sir!” Miles made it to the river bank, at last. “The undertow!” Olivier ignored him, and he frantically dug out his flare gun. He sent up three flares, and then took up his whistle repeating the danger call over and over. Olivier made it to the break her brother had fallen through, and without hesitation, put her hands over her head and dove into the icy water. Miles could see her blonde hair floating for a moment and then undertow swept her away under the ice. He took a step forward onto the icy river but it cracked under his foot and he plunged into the the icy water. Grateful it was only a few inches deep he leapt back onto the bank shaking the water off his boot.

“Sir!” The Mountain Guard had arrived just in time to see Olivier vanish. Without waiting for instructions, they were digging ice hooks out from their packs. The lightest members of all squads were throwing their hooks, dropping to their stomachs, and sliding across the ice aided by the ropes attached to their hooks.

“Follow the undertow!” Buccaneer ordered, appearing, breathless, beside Miles. “Get ahead of them and make a hole!”

“Here!” One of the men called, pulling his hook free and cutting into the ice. “There’s an underwater dam!” The ice snapped and buckled, and one of the other members of his squad grabbed his ankle.

“Pull back!” Miles ordered, barely believing himself. “We don’t need any more men to go under!” The hole finished, the men obeyed.

What felt like an eternity, but was mere seconds passed, and Miles prayed they had calculated correctly. A small hand reached up suddenly and grabbed the ice. There was a flurry of sparkles, and, in a show of the infamous inhuman Armstrong strength, Olivier rose halfway from the water and flung her brother onto the ice. He skidded, but this time the ice held. The Mountain Guard inched toward him carefully. Olivier sank back into the water, her strength spent. Her arm, coat sleeve now frozen to the ice, was all that remained visible.

Roach slid toward her, arms outstretched. The ice cracked ominously and he froze. Olivier resurfaced with a gasp, throwing her other arm onto the ice. Within seconds the undertow reclaimed her and she slipped back under. Roach grabbed her arms and began to pull. As soon as her head and shoulders reemerged he slipped a life line around and knotted it tightly. He twisted around and gave a thumbs-up to the men on the shore. Echo Squad sprang to life and began tugging them back across the ice. A few feet away Charlie and Delta were straining together to pull Alex to safety.

Miles pushed past Echo and reached for Olivier, grabbing her arms as soon as he could reach. He pulled her up off the ice and over his shoulder. She was limp and gave no indication she was aware of him. “Are the medics here yet?”

“Here, Sir!” The doctor was running toward him. “I have my men setting up a tent!” She checked Olivier’s pulse quickly and sent Miles toward the tent, continuing on to check Alex who had been in the water longer.

Miles dropped Olivier onto a cot in the hastily-assembled medical tent. Medics pushed him away, and knelt over her; he staggered back outside feeling useless. Buccaneer pushed past him, grunting with the strain of carrying Alex. Moments later the doctor rushed into the tent and Buccaneer, too, was pushed out.

Miles found himself recounting what had happened first to Grumman, then to Hughes, and then to Mustang, all the while pacing outside the medic’s tent. At last the doctor appeared in the doorway.

“You can go in, Sir.” She told Miles. “I suggest you make arrangements for transport.” The doctor turned to Grumman, “I’ll not have my patients walking back to the fort.”

Miles slipped into the tent and regarded the siblings cautiously. Both were bundled up in several layers of blankets, and Olivier’s wet hair was wrapped in a towel. Alex was sipping a steaming mug of cocoa, but Olivier’s was on the ground beside her cot.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

“I’m fine!” Olivier snapped. “Or I will be when I get out of this cocoon.” He looked closer and realized her blankets were bound on with belts.

“If you would accept treatment the doctor wouldn’t have to invoke her right to deem you unfit for duty.” Alex told her, wiping hot cocoa off his mustache.

“Shut up!” She glared at him. “You’re the reason I’m in this mess, to begin with! I should have let you drown.”

“You don’t mean that!” Alex told her, jovially. “Otherwise you would have let me!” He gave her the closest thing to a sly smile his face was capable of. “So, why didn’t you?”

“Paperwork!” Olivier blurted angrily. “Do you know how much paperwork I would have to do?!”

Miles picked up the cocoa, and knelt beside her. “Sorry, Sir. I think you’re supposed to drink this.” He gave Alex a warning look, he didn’t want an argument to start in full force. “Open up.” He instructed Olivier, raising the mug to her lips. Her face contorted angrily, and Miles poured a little cocoa into her open mouth. He wasn’t surprised when she spit it in his face. He wiped the cocoa away and tried again. “Come on, Sir. If you don’t get your strength up I’ll have to carry you back to the fort.” He smirked at her indignant sparkles. “Pajamas _and_ a blanket dress in one day? Your men are going to have serious questions about your commitment to the uniform.” She glared at him, but obediently let him feed her the cocoa.

“You should think hard about how you address your superior officer.” Alex told him, suddenly serious.

“So should you.” Olivier countered, glaring at him.

“Snow vehicles are here to take you back.” The doctor reappeared in the door. “I scrounged up some dry things for you to wear.”

“I’ll see you back at the Fort, Sir.” Miles rose and exited the tent, smiling a little to himself, at the sounds of Alex and Olivier quibbling.

-

The next day was remarkably uneventful with Olivier and Alex confined to the Fort at the doctor’s orders. Olivier was insisting she was fine, but her nose was getting progressively pinker as the day went on and she was struggling to conceal her sneezing. Alex was honest about feeling under the weather, and thankfully not as melodramatic as he could have been. Nevertheless, they both appeared at the closing ceremony and feast.

“Now,” Grumman told the assembled soldiers cheerfully, “I have a few very special announcements; Tonight we have a few promotions to award!” He beamed as the men cheered. “First, I’d like to call Brigadier General Armstrong to the podium!” Olivier sneezed loudly. She reported stiffly to Grumman, and sniffled. “Bless you!” He told her cheerfully. “It is my honor, today, to present you with the rank of Major General!” He held out two gleaming stars. “This award is recognition of your excellent command of Fort Briggs, your outstanding record, and your unparalleled dedication to your men!” He pinned the stars to her epaulets. “Congratulations, Major General.”

Olivier sneezed again.

“Thank you, Sir.” She saluted with a rasping wheeze. She turned on her heel and marched from the podium, down the center of the troops, and all the way out the door. Resounding sneezing echoed from the hall.

“Well.” Grumman blinked at the door. “Right. Next, I’d like to call Lt. Buccaneer.”

Miles watched, disinterestedly, as Grumman handed out promotions. His mind was following Olivier down the halls, and he hoped, to her barracks to rest.

“It was an honor, Sir.” Hawkeye was shaking his hand, a few hours later, as the feast concluded.

“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Miles smiled at her. “Same to you.” He made his way through several similar exchanges, before he was finally able to slip away. He found Olivier in her quarters, and offered to fetch the doctor, but she sent him away angrily.

She didn’t show up the next morning to watch the send-off of the Eastern troops, nor was she in the office when Miles reported there. Concerned, he made his way back to her quarters.

“What?” Olivier snarled, opening the door to his knocks. She was wearing a tshirt and her military trousers, but was still barefoot.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

“I’m fine.” Her nose was raw and red, and she was wheezing as she spoke. “I’m moving slowly this morning is all.”

“Sir, your heater’s not on.” He pushed past her and knelt to turn it on.

“Leave it!” She snapped. “I’m burning up!”

Miles turned to her, unable to conceal his concern. “You might have a fever. Here.” He reached to feel her forehead. She pushed his hand away.

“I’m fine, I just need to-” she trailed off, “need to-” she swayed. Miles grabbed for her, just in the nick of time. She crumpled and he barely managed to keep her from hitting the floor. He maneuvered her onto her bunk. Poking his head out the door, he ordered the first soldier he saw to fetch the doctor.

\---

“Well.” The doctor concluded her examination, and turned to Miles who had been pacing the small barrack nervously. “She’s going to be fine. _If,_ ” she turned back to Olivier and glared, “she takes her medication and rests.” Miles breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d like to take you down to the infirmary for observation.”

“No.” Olivier glared. “I’m staying here.”

“Sir, I think you’re forgetting I have the right to supersede your orders when I deem it medically necessary.”

“I won’t go to the infirmary.” Olivier crossed her arms, defensively.

“What would it take for her to be able to stay here?” Miles intervened.

“A babysitter.” The doctor crossed her own arms. “Someone who will make sure she takes her medicine on time, and that she stays in bed, checks her fever periodically, and sends for me the minute there’s a problem.”

“I’ll do it.” Miles regarded the two stubborn, and surprised, women before him. “I can work at your desk, Sir. Buccaneer can take up his old post as secondary adjutant and keep me informed.”

“Fine.” Olivier growled, and dabbed her runny nose roughly.

“Very well.” The doctor rose from the chair at Olivier’s bedside. “Here’s the medicine. Two teaspoons every four hours. It’ll make her drowsy, and probably a little loopy. And the thermometer, get me if the fever rises above 101 degrees.” She rattled in her bag. “Here, a compress. Also, some heat packs.” She paused, thoughtfully, checking if she had forgotten anything. “If she gives you any trouble _at all_ , I authorize you to have Captain Buccaneer sit on her while you fetch me.” She ignored Olivier’s noise of protest. “Good luck, Sir.” She saluted and left the room.

Miles sank into the chair the doctor had vacated, and measured out the sticky red syrup Olivier needed to take. “Here you are, love.”

“ _Uniforms._ ” Olivier snarled at him. “And I’m not taking that disgusting stuff.”

“Yes, you _are_ , Sir.” Miles held out the medicine undeterred by her wrath.

“Don’t back-talk me, Major.”

“Alright.” He reached over and pinched her nose. “I won’t.” He poured the syrup into her mouth. She choked for a second and then, unable to breathe, swallowed. He released her. “Sorry, Sir.”

Olivier glared at him, shocked by his boldness. After a minute, she turned away angrily. Miles watched her, but she didn’t turn back. He gave her shoulder a swift, gentle, pat and dragged the chair back to the desk, setting to work.

Loopy was, Miles discovered as the medicine took hold, an understatement. Olivier frightened him with sudden giggling.

“Are you alright, Sir?” He rushed to her bedside.

“I’m floating.” She told him, wiggling her fingers in the air. “It’s like being on a cloud.”

“Er. If you say so.” Miles made a mental note to call the doctor and check the dosage. “I’m going back to work now, if you’re okay.”

“No, silly, I’m O _livier_. Not O _kay_.”

“Right.” Miles patted her shoulder, again. Her eyelids fluttered and closed, and within moments she was snoring loudly. Somewhat perturbed, Miles returned to the desk and picked up her phone. The doctor reassured him the dosage was correct, and hypothesized she was just more susceptible to the side effects, as some people were.

-

Buccaneer filled in for him with remarkable ease, and Miles was largely undisturbed until Buccaneer brought a bundle of papers that needed a signature.“Here you are, Sir.” Buccaneer handed him a thick packet of paperwork. “How’s the General?”

“She’s doing alright-” Miles began, but was interrupted by Olivier who had apparently awoken.

“A bear!” She gasped, suddenly.

“That’s right.” Miles was already used to her strange pattern of waking and sleeping, and the medicinally-induced ramblings. Buccaneer’s eyes widened, and he gave Miles a nervous glance. Miles shrugged in response.

“But why does the bear have a mohawk?” She sounded genuinely concerned.

“Because.” Miles told her, with a shake of his head. She was already drifting off to sleep again.

“What’s wrong with my mohawk?” Buccaneer asked, grabbing the top of his head defensively.

“Don’t ask me.” Miles shrugged. “Have some soup sent up at lunch time, will you?”

“Yes, Sir.” Buccaneer turned away, still self-consciously running his fingers through his mohawk.

-

Miles filled the hours with paperwork, checking Olivier’s temperature periodically, and rubbing balm on her raw nose. She continued floating somewhere between waking and sleeping, making nonsensical statements between snores. Miles was contemplating waking her when the soup was brought up.

“No!” Olivier murmured, as Miles set the tray carefully on the desk.

“What?” Miles measured out her next dose of medicine, figuring she would take it with her soup a little more easily.

“No, no. Don’t! Please, no!” She was having a nightmare, Miles realized, and dropped the vial hastily. She was thrashing, and tears were running down her cheeks.

“Hey, hey.” Miles shook her shoulder gently. “Wake up, love. It’s okay.”

“No, please.” She whispered. “I don’t want- No!”

“It’s alright, love.” Miles shook her a little harder. “Wake up, it’s just a dream.” She gasped loudly and her eyes snapped open. She was white and shaking. He plumped her pillows, and helped her sit up. “You’re alright,” he soothed, “it was just a bad dream.” He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped away the tears and mucus now covering her face.

Olivier took a few shaky breaths. “Sorry, Miles. I always have nightmares when I’m sick.” She seemed lucid now.

“I’m sorry.” Miles stroked her cheek gently. “Is there anything you can take, or-?”

She shook her head, wrapping her arm around herself. He rubbed her back gently as she coughed violently.

“Is that soup?” She asked, when the coughs subsided. He nodded, and hastily brought her some. He helped her eat her bowl, and then, reluctantly, gave her her next dose. “Don’t tell anyone.” She ordered, downing the medicine. “It’s humiliating.”

“Of course not.” Miles frowned at the thought. “I’ll be right here,” he added, gently, “if you need me.” He sat and held her hand while she surrendered her lucidity to the medication once more.

It took almost two days, but the fever eventually broke and Olivier was able to return work with only a faint sniffle. Miles, on the other hand, was so worn out from looking after her, he found himself on bed rest. Life in Briggs returned to normal as soon as he was back up and running, and spring marched steadily on into summer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always, your comments are greatly appreciated.


	21. Oli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I know the last chapter kinda lost the plot (sick!Olivier hijacked it), but I swear we're back on track now.

Miles observed Olivier as closely as he dared without drawing her attention. She was leaning on her arm, staring out the window, her relaxed pose causing her to sway with the movement of the train, but her face was tense and her eyes stared, dark and unseeing, at the landscape rushing past. He honestly hadn’t been so stressed since their train ride to Briggs. And now they were reversing that journey, and her mood spiraled downward faster than the hurtling train.

Watching her, he reflected on how they had come to be on the train in the first place. She’d been irritated enough to receive summons to Central for a routine General’s meeting, but then-

_“What I want to know, dear, is if you received my letter?” Miles was eavesdropping on Olivier’s phone conversation with her mother, who Karley had only put through after two days of helping Olivier dodge her calls._

_“I did.” Olivier told her, stiffly. Miles raised an eyebrow at her. She hadn’t mentioned a letter. “I have to report to High Command at the start of the week, but I’ll only be in Central for the day. Tell Catherine I’m sorry, but I’m not coming.”_

_“I was afraid you would say that.” Her mother sighed, “I was telling Lady Bradley about it at tea, telling her how disappointed Catherine would be. You know she thinks of Catherine as fondly as though she were her own daughter and-”_

_“Get to the point, Mother.” She tapped her fingers impatiently on the desk._

_“Well. She mentioned it to her husband, the Fuhrer, and he agreed to send General oh, what was his name? Anyway, he’s sending someone to mind the fort for the whole week!”_

_“Mother.” Olivier gritted her teeth. “Fort Briggs can’t just be ‘minded’ it needs-”_

_“He offered to send you a written amendment to your orders!” Angelica Armstrong laughed. “Of course, I told them that wouldn’t be necessary! Just think how_ embarrassing _that would be!”_

_“Fine.” She growled. “I’ll come to the stupid debutante ball.”_

_“Excellent! Well, I have to get going, but I am so looking forward to it! Ta-ta, darling!” With a loud kissing noise, she hung up. Olivier dropped her phone like cooties might run through it and attack her._

_Miles took off his headset and smirked at her. “Have fun, Sir. I’ll head back and keep you updated-”_

_“Oh, no.” Olivier’s smirk was much was colder than Miles’. “You’re not getting out of this.”_

_His smirk faltered. “But, what will your family think?”_

_“Generals travel with their adjutants all the time.” Her wicked grin widened. “If I have to suffer, so do you.”_

"Are you alright, Sir?” He asked as the train made it’s squealing, lurching, way into the Central City Station.

“I’m fine, Major.” She rose, and threw her bag over her shoulder. “Come on, I have errands to run.” Miles hefted his own bag, and followed her obediently off the train.

-

Their first stop turned out to be at the bank, where Olivier slid her ID card and a slip of paper with a long number written on it to a surprised looking clerk. Miles watched, curiously, as the clerk handed her an envelope with several thick stacks of money inside. Without a word, she turned and set off again. Miles, feeling a bit like a lost puppy dog, followed her once more. Her path took them from the center of the city to a somewhat sketchier area on the outskirts.

“Come on, Miles.” She stopped at the edge of a staircase leading down to a basement tailor’s shop. “You’re about to meet the finest tailor in Central.”

He regarded the trash-littered streets, the rusty tailor’s sign, and the seemingly-homeless man sleeping a few feet away, and contemplated contradicting her. He, however, valued his life, and kept his mouth shut.

A bell tinkled pitifully as Olivier pushed the door open. “Coming!” A voice called from the back, and a minute later an old wizened man appeared. “Miss Armstrong!” He beamed, “a pleasure!”

“Likewise.” Olivier greeted the man, curtly. “I trust you have my order ready?”

“Of course, of course.” He eyed Miles critically. “Is this the young man?”

“Yes.” Olivier’s lips twitched. “Will it work?”

“Yes, I think it will.”

“Sir, what-?” Miles looked from Olivier to the tailor, nervously. The tailor had already turned and begun gathering garment bags.

“Mr. Takumi can fit clothes perfectly without ever putting a tape measure to you.” Olivier told him, calmly. “I sent him your measurements and had a few things custom-made.”

“What?” Miles blinked at her behind his goggles.

“Here we are.” The tailor began laying the bags out. “A dinner coat, a few ties in the colors you requested, trousers in grey and black, a couple of shirts, tailcoat-”

“A few?” Miles turned to Olivier who was deliberately ignoring him. “You _can’t-_ ”

“I can.” Olivier countered. “I’ll spend my money how I like, Major.”

If Takumi noticed their exchange he gave no indication. “May I presume you are planning to wear dress blues to the ball, Miss Armstrong?”

“Yes, why?” She seemed relieved to have a chance to brush Miles off.

“May I be so bold as to suggest,” the tailor laid out one more bag, “this, instead? Finest imported Xingese silk, I took the liberty-” He opened the bag revealing burgundy fabric. “And I do so love to see you in red, brings out the color in your cheeks.”

“You _are_ bold, Sir.” Olivier took the garment bag with a slight huff. “I’ll take it, no guarantees I’ll wear it.” Miles peered, curious, but Olivier resealed the bag before he could see anything beyond the color. She tossed the bags into his arms and turned to settle the bill. It felt wrong to let her buy him so much, but Miles would have to drain his bank account to cover the tab.

“Thank you, Sir.” He told her as they made their way back up the rusty stairs.

“You send your money to your mother.” Olivier stated, simply, as though that explained something.

“Yes, Sir.” Miles nodded. “I don’t see what-”

“You are remarkably dense, you know that, right?” She was leading him down a back alley into an even sketchier part of town.

“Yes, Sir.” He frowned at her back, and jumped over a particularly rank trash heap.

“You could have nice things, on a Major’s salary.” Olivier sidestepped a tipped over trash bin. “Instead you send money home to your widowed mother and your elderly grandmothers. That’s admirable.”

“That’s family, Sir.” He dodged the same bin.

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Just let me dote on you, Miles.”

“Oh.” Miles considered this. “ _Oh!_ Thank you, Sir!” Olivier’s only response was another sigh.

-

“Here we are.” They arrived outside a dingy building. The downstairs was some kind of bar, but if the clotheslines on the balconies above were an indicator, there were apartments upstairs. Miles looked around, curiously. The street was much cleaner, and the dinginess gave the area a sort of clandestine feeling rather than actual grime.

“Madame Christmas’?” Miles read the sign, doubtfully. “Are you sure, Sir?”

“Absolutely.” She took a deep breath. “Let’s go.” She marched in the door like she marched into combat.

“We’re _closed,_ can’t you read?” A deep voice spoke from behind the bar, and a rather large older woman turned to them irritated. “Oli! What a surprise.” She regarded them with narrowed eyes. “Who’s this?”

“Madame Christmas, this is my adjutant, Major Miles.” She waved a hand from one to the other. “Miles, Madame Christmas.”

“Huh. What brings you around here, Oli?” Madame Christmas lit a cigarette, eyes never leaving Miles.

“I have payment.” Olivier extracted two bundles of cash from her envelope and slid them across the counter. By Miles’ count there was only one left, now.

“Thanks, hon.” Christmas took them, and thumbed through the bills. “Advance, again?” She took a puff of her cigarette, Miles tried not to cough when she blew smoke in his direction. “Up you go, love.” Olivier nodded and crossed the bar, slipping through a back door and starting up a rickety staircase. Miles moved to follow her but found his path blocked by Madame Christmas. “You know my rule, Oli. No men upstairs.”

“I’m not one of your girls, Madame.” Olivier paused on the stairs, but didn’t look back.

“The rule holds.” Christmas told her firmly. Olivier shrugged, waved, and continued. The madame turned to Miles. “Sit down, boy.” Miles, nervously, perched on the nearest barstool. “What’ll you be drinking?” She blew more smoke in his face.

“Nothing, Ma’am.” He coughed as the smoke stung his nose and throat. “I’m still working.”

“Madame to you.” She corrected, grinding her cigarette out on an old ashtray. “And, hon, when the barkeep asks what you’ll be drinking you don’t say no.” She turned to the back bar. “I’ll just pick something, then.” She selected a bottle, poured a glass, and slid it to him.

“Thank you, Madame.” Miles took the glass, but didn’t drink. He turned to look at the old door Olivier had vanished through. “Er, Madame, what-?” He faltered uncertainly.

“Oh, Oli’s kept a room here since she was eighteen.” Christmas told him, matter-of-factly. “Heaven only knows why, she was only ever here on Academy breaks, and all. It’s not like her family disowned her, either, but she refused to go home after the disaster of her debutte.” Christmas poured herself a drink. “So, Major, what makes you so special?”

“Sorry, what?” Miles was still trying to process Olivier renting a room above what had to have been the strangest bar he had ever been in.

“Oli’s never brought anyone home, before.” The madame regarded him over the top of her glass. “Drink up.”

“Right.” Miles took a sip of his drink. “Like she said, I’m her adjutant.”

“So?” Christmas fixed him with a piercing stare. “Her old adjutant made her cry and she still never brought him here.”

“He made her cry?” In all the states Miles had seen Olivier in, he had never once seen tears.

“Uh-huh.” Christmas smirked at him. “Right after he put a knife between her ribs, she comes staggering in here, knife still sticking out, crying her eyes out about heads. Doesn't matter how tough you are, sometimes, the body goes into shock, just to try and protect itself. Had to have Vanessa take her to the hospital. She wouldn’t go.”

Miles took another sip of the mystery drink, and looked away. He kept hoping Olivier would reappear and free him from the nightmarish conversation.

“So,” She seemed to realize he wasn’t going to answer “I’m thinking you want something.”

“Not at all, Madame.” Miles fidgeted, uncomfortably.

“Really? I deal in three mediums.”

“Er, right. What do I owe you for the drink?” He patted his pockets, and produced his wallet.

“Three mediums,” she repeated, “money, which I don’t want from you. Information, secrets if you will, and promises.”

“I don’t think I have-”

“Eh. I’ll put in Oli’s tab, then. She owes me a good secret.” Christmas sat back and looked him over, thoughtfully. “She used to pay me in promises, you know. All she had.”

“Madame," he said, a bit desperately, "I really don’t think this is appropriate-”

“You know what her first one was?” Madame Christmas rose and pulled a painting off the wall, revealing a safe. She opened it and rattled inside, there was no visible money, just what seemed like an odd assortment of knickknacks. “I keep all my promises close on hand,” she told him, “just in case. Ah! Here we are.” She turned and pressed something metal into his hand.

Miles took it and held it up. It was a bracelet, broken. The metal rings were bent as though it had been twisted until they snapped. A simple placard read: #01276 Armstrong, Olivier M

“This is a prisoner's tag.” Miles frowned at the Madame. “How did you come to have this?” He remembered Olivier had been arrested, but the tag still surprised him.

“It was her first promise.” Christmas took it back. “Bent it off on that bottle opener,” she indicated a rusty metal opener fixed to the wall. “‘I’m going to do it, Madame’” she quoted, lightly. “‘Be the first, be the best-’”

“I swear it on my life.” Olivier finished, reappearing in the doorway. “You’re as bad as my father with those old tales, Madame.”

“Not hardly.” Christmas snorted. “Ol’ Phil would have your Major snoring by now.”

“Is that Oli?!” A woman appeared from the backroom. “Oli!” She threw herself at Olivier who stood stiffly, but allowed herself to be embraced. “Are we telling Oli stories? Can I do the fork one, _please?!_ ”

“Vanessa.” Olivier frowned at her. “No one is telling that one.” She had changed from her uniform into a white blouse and black trousers, and was holding a ring of keys, otherwise she gave no indication of what she had been doing upstairs.

“Guess I’m no one!” Vanessa beamed at her. “So, Mister-”

“Miles.” Christmas supplied.

“Mister Miles, I like that! Okay, so when little Oli first came to us, she was all determined to go be a soldier, which, obviously, she did, but the Madame wanted to try her out as one of us, just in case.” Olivier dropped onto the barstool beside Miles, head in hands.

“It went pretty well, at first.” Madame Christmas told him. “We gave her an easy mark, and he fell right for it.”

“But, then,” Vanessa continued, “He touched her-”

“Like so.” Madame Christmas leaned over and touched inside of his knee, Miles jerked his leg back.

“See, that’s how a normal person responds. But not Oli! No, she grabs a fork,” Vanessa grabbed one and held it like a weapon, “and BAM! Right in his hand!”

“Enough!” Olivier roared. “Miles! Go change, there’s a bathroom over there.” She pointed. Miles slid off the barstool and hastened to obey, grabbing the garment bag Olivier kicked at him. “Here’s your secret, Madame.” Olivier practically threw a piece of folded paper at the madame.

Miles struggled awkwardly in the tiny bathroom. His outfit which contained a white shirt, black trousers, and matching vest, seemed to be missing a tie. Not to mention, he realized, as he tried in vain to button the sleeves, _buttons._

“Sir, I think I’m missing a tie, or something.” Miles reemerged, cautiously. Olivier was behind the bar, like she owned the place, pouring herself a drink.

“Nope.” Vanessa approached him. “You’re wearing it wrong. Here.” She undid the top button and smoothed his collar. “You need cuff links for a shirt like this, except this is casual. Chic.” She rolled the sleeves up to his elbows. “There you are. Handsome, don’t you think, Oli?” Olivier snorted into her whiskey and didn’t respond. “Better without the glasses, I’d imagine.” Vanessa told him, seeming unsurprised when Miles didn’t take them off.

“Is this ready to go, Madame?” Olivier rattled the keys at the barkeeper.

“Tuned up, filled up, just like you like it.” Christmas told her. “Are you leaving us, then?”

“Of course.” Olivier retrieved her pack from the floor. Miles did the same. “Thank you, Madame.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Comments are like sunshine and fresh cookies to me! 
> 
> Also, the fork story is heavily inspired by Parker from _Leverage_ , so I can't really take credit.


	22. Black Sheep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I really can't do this whole consistent-length chapters thing. Sorry.

Miles was relieved when Olivier led him back toward the more respectable parts of town. Central City had a lovely park, and she cut through it, giving him the opportunity to admire the scenery.

“Let’s get some Xingese.” Olivier pointed at a colorful vendor’s cart.

“Are you sure, Sir?” Miles was starting to suspect she was procrastinating. “Your family will wonder what’s taking so long.”

“Absolutely, Miles.” She marched over to the cart determinedly. “Two pots of noodle, and two of your tapioca teas, please.” She ordered without consulting him. “Come on,” she handed him his food, “I know the perfect place to eat this.” He followed her obediently, as he always did. She led him into a grove of trees, where a simple wooden bench was hidden from sight. Olivier sank onto the bench and tore into her noodles, voraciously.

Miles sat beside her, and started on his own noodles, in a somewhat more dignified manner. Buccaneer had once, teasingly, asked Olivier how a lady like her could eat so piggishly. He had nearly lost his other arm via cutlery.

“I used to come here all the time.” Oliver told him, slowing down on her food. Out of uniform, in the relative privacy of the clearing, Olivier slid an arm around his shoulder and he happily leaned against her. “It’s not really woods, but to a city kid, it used to seem so wild.”

“Is your home near here, then?” Miles asked as innocently, as he could manage.“The grounds butt up against the park. But, unless you want to be shot by my father’s overzealous security staff, we need to go around to the main entrance.”

At last, the food and tea were gone and the sun was beginning to set. “I guess can’t put it off any longer.” Olivier sighed. “Let’s go, Miles.” She led him to a car park and up to a sleek black car. “Can you drive?” She asked, handing him the keys she had picked up at Madame Christmas’ Bar.

Miles nodded and took the keys. After depositing his pack in the back seat, he clambered into the driver’s seat. Most of his driving experience had been supply trucks, and he had to admire the luxury of the car’s pristine interior.

Olivier, Miles realized, was _nervous_. She kept blurting etiquette rules and advice between driving directions. “Take a left here, always work from the outside in on your silverware, straight until the next stop. Remember in a formal setting always rise when a woman enters the room. Don’t hit that car! If it’s casual, you can remain seated, except if it’s Mother. Always rise for Mother. Take a right, Miles. If you’re unsure follow Alex’s lead. Another right, here, unless he strips. Keep your shirt on at all times. Through this gate.”

Miles gave an involuntary gasp when the Armstrong Manor came into view. The towering mansion was almost as large as Briggs itself, and the vast lawns were resplendent in gardens, fountains, and hedges.

“Extravagance,” Olivier muttered quietly “thy name is Armstrong.”

She fell silent, except to direct him to a parking place. They pulled their luggage from the backseat and made their way up to the impressive double doors. Olivier lifted a heavy knocker and pounded it heavily, which surprised Miles. He had rather expected her to waltz right in.

“Yes?” A butler answered the door, and surveyed them drily. “Miss Armstrong! Your parents are expecting you.” He stepped back to let them in, and Miles felt his gaze was disapproving. A young boy hastened forward to take their luggage. Miles handed his over uncertainly.

“Your belongings will be taken to your rooms.” The butler told them. “Miss Armstrong, your parents are placing you in your childhood bedroom-” he ignored Olivier’s face of disgust, “and, you,” he regarded Miles like gum on the bottom of his shoe, “will be shown to guest quarters later.”

“Olivier, dear!” Olivier’s mother appeared suddenly. “Come join us in the parlor!” She indicated a doorway through which they could hear strains of conversation.

“Actually, Mother, I’m quite tired from travelling. I’m headed to bed.” Olivier brushed past her.

“Olivier!” Her mother frowned at her. “It’s still early and you just got here-”

“ _Goodnight,_ Mother.”

“Please, don’t make a scene.” The tall woman’s face set in a hard line. 

“I’m not.” Olivier gave her mother one final scowl before ascending a nearby staircase.

“Well.” Angelica huffed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Major. Jeeves, please show him, to the drawing room, Philip would like to meet his daughter’s adjutant.” She turned on her heel and vanished through the door she had come in through. Miles, stomach knotted with nerves, allowed himself to be led to the drawing room.

“Excuse me, Sir.” The butler opened the door. “Please allow me to present Major Miles, adjutant to Miss Armstrong.”

“Major!” Alex Armstrong, clad in a suit, bounded toward him. “I’m pleased to see you!”

“You as well.” Miles shook his hand politely, taking in the room. A giant man, the retired General Armstrong, was seated in a chair near the door, and around the room were approximately twenty other men. The room was divided fairly evenly between hulking, sparkling, men who had to be Olivier’s uncles and cousins and an assortment of men who could have been anyone for all that Miles knew.

“Major, welcome to our home.” The elder Armstrong spoke, sparkling benignly. “I am Philip Gargantos Armstrong, please do call me Philip, though. Here, have a seat.” He indicated an unoccupied seat on the far side of the non-Armstrong half of the room.

“Thank you.” Miles hastened to sit, wishing Olivier had warned him there would be so many people so quickly. Alex gave him an encouraging smile as he returned to his seat beside his father. The men returned to their conversation without missing a beat.

“I’m surprised,” an older man, not an Armstrong, was saying “that you would bother having a debutante ball when your three eldest daughters are all out and unmarried.”

“Well,” Philip smiled jovially. “It wouldn’t be fair to hold that against little Catherine, now would it? Besides, I am hoping to remedy that situation soon.”

“So you say.” A man closer to Miles’ age with slicked back hair, and a cold voice interjected. “I’d still like to see this daughter of yours, if you’re so eager to move on arrangements.”

Miles frowned, he didn’t really understand high society, but he felt like he was at an odd sort of auction, and he didn’t like it.

“I’ve assured you, Mr. Garand, she’s a lovely lady. Beautiful and accomplished.”

“That’s what you said about your other two daughters.” Garand muttered darkly. Miles’ frown hardened as a few of the other men snickered. Alex looked confused, and Miles realized that he viewed all of his sisters as equally beautiful and didn’t understand what the other man meant.

“You’ll have your opportunity to meet her.” Philip told him, sounding vaguely irritated. “You all will.” He indicated the other men on Miles’ side of the room.

“And if we don’t like what we see?” One of the men who snickered asked.

“ _Really_ , Mauser!” Alex interjected, scandalized.

“Is that really a concern?” Philip asked, regarding the men with a frown. Several of them nodded. “Very well. Jeeves!” The butler appeared immediately. “Please bring Miss Armstrong here.”

“Sir, I believe she has retired for the night.”

“Nonsense! It’s much too early!” Philip beamed.

“Father, perhaps-” Alex started, falling silent when his father glanced at him. With a resigned nod the butler vanished. Miles shifted, uncomfortably. There was sure to be bloodshed if he was interpreting events correctly, and Olivier was about to be paraded around like a prized calf at an auction.

Everything in him wanted to run after the butler and snatch Olivier up, take her somewhere far away, where there would be no talk of dowries and no hungry eyes would size her up. Most of all, he realized, with a pang in his chest he had never felt before, he wanted to take her somewhere where she would be loved and treasured, and no society, no _father_ , could reduce her to a prize to be won, a trophy to be bought and sold. His ability to protect her began and ended with his role as her adjutant, a soldier under her command, to throw himself between certain death and his general. As her husband, as one who loved her, he could only let her protect herself (which she was admittedly, very good at) and be there when the battle was done to love her, to pick up the pieces, to _heal_ her.

“This reminds me of a time when-” Philip Armstrong launched into a long dull story about an Armstrong tradition that moved one half of the room almost to tears and prompted a few snores from the other half. Miles tried to focus, but the story made no sense to him.

“ _What, Father?_ ” The door flew open with a bang, and Olivier stomped in. Behind her, the butler was making frantic apologies. Miles hastened to join the men in rising as Olivier had told him was polite. The Armstrong half of the room was various stages of shocked and embarrassed, and the other half was a mix of slack-jaws and wide eyes.

Olivier, it seemed, really had retired to bed. Her long hair was slightly tousled and she had a sleepy flush on her cheeks. What really shocked everyone, though, was her pajamas. They were not the thick dark thermals she wore at Briggs, as it was much too hot. Nor were they the more traditional nightgown. She was wearing the very modern pajamas that (though Miles did not know this) were all the rage in Central, a simple cotton chemise and shorts. To Miles, she was the picture of a rarely seen adorable, softer, nature she kept well hidden. To the others, well, scandalized about covered it.

"Sister!” Alex leapt forward throwing off his suit jacket and draping it around her. “Allow me to cover you!”

“Father,” she stopped and looked around the room. “Who are all these men?” She was sparkling darkly, and though her face was enraged, Miles could see embarrassment creeping into her eyes.

“Well,” Philip blustered, “these are your cousins-”

“I know _them_ , Father.” Olivier snarled. “Who are _they_?” She indicated the other ten or so men.

“Um, well. They are very fine young gentlemen who would like, er, agreeable matches.” He rambled, pausing at his daughter’s raised brow. “Suitors.”

“I realize,” Olivier told him drily, surveying the room “that it’s traditional to auction off your daughter at her debutante ball, but aren’t they a little old for Catherine?”

“Not Catherine.”

“Strongine and Amue?” She frowned. “Do everyone a favor and send their pictures with the invite.”

“Sister!”

“No, not them, either.” Philip was growing more flustered by the minute.

“Alex?” Olivier’s mouth twisted into a cold smirk. “Something you need to tell me?”

_“Sister!”_

“Olivier Mira!” Angelica Armstrong marched toward her, a group of shocked (and sparkling) women trailing in her wake. “I heard the commotion, and came. What did you-? Oh my!” She grabbed her daughter’s arm. “Please come away!” She dragged Olivier away, lecturing loudly. “How scandalous! What were you thinking? Honestly, at your age-! You should be grateful to have interested men, at all-”

“Perhaps this isn’t such a bad time to retire, after all.” Philip waved vaguely at them. “Anyone who still needs to be shown to their room please follow Jeeves. I’m headed off, I think, but the drawing room will remain open.”

Relieved, Miles hastened to follow the butler up two flights of stairs, and into another wing of the house.

“Here you are.” The butler handed him a key and indicated a door. “Your room is just here, have a good night.”

“You too.” Miles nodded politely at the man who had already begun walking away. He unlocked the door and stepped into the nicest room he had ever stayed in. His bags were tucked neatly away in an open closet, and there was a small table and armchair just inside the door. Across the way a massive bed was covered in fluffy white blankets, and billowing curtains framed a vast window. He crossed the room and peered in the door of the en suite bathroom. It had a massive clawfoot tub, and separate shower, luxuries to be sure.

He unpacked quickly, hanging up the expensive clothes Olivier had given him almost reverently. He slipped into his own pajamas, a tshirt that had become too faded for his uniform and shorts. It was still early so he settled into the plushy armchair with a book he’d brought for the train.

There was a sharp rap on his window and Miles looked up surprised. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Olivier standing on the narrow window ledge. He leapt up and opened the window to let her in. She jumped in, agile and graceful. They were three floors up, but Olivier, who routinely dangled her her feet over the edge of the Fort, was not phased at all.

“Liv!” Miles pulled her into an embrace. “What on earth?”

“My parents used to lock me in my room all the time.” She chuckled at his nervousness. “There’s a ledge all the way around on every floor, easy as can be really.”

“Surely there’s an easier way-”

“Not really.” Olivier pulled away with a slight frown. “Are you not happy to see me?”

“I am.” He reassured her, tightening his embrace. “You frightened me, is all.”

“You worry too much.” She scolded gently. “This isn’t a very nice room.” She observed, looking around. “They could have at least given you one with-”

“I think it’s very nice. Your parents are being generous not making me a stay in a hotel.” Miles reminded her. He hesitated, a long minute. “What happened down there?”

She scowled, and for a moment he thought she wasn’t going to answer, but then she spoke, cool and detached. “My family belongs to a certain, ah, _social sphere_. It’s horrible and old-fashioned, and there are all these rules that the rest of the world abandoned years ago. Technically, my parent’s greatest responsibility was to marry me off to the highest bidder as soon as possible. It didn’t matter so much when it was just Strongine and Amue after me, they’ve known they would be old maids since they were eight and ten, but now that Catherine’s of age-” She cleared her throat. “I’m the family embarrassment. If they can get me tidied away with a decent match, then maybe her chances will be better.”

“You’re a _general!_ How can your family be embarrassed by that?!”

She stared at him. “I’m a _woman_. I’m supposed to be dainty and delicate, flutter my lashes, get a rich husband, and have babies. As far as they’re concerned, I’m a complete and utter failure.”

“Ah.” Miles said, because he couldn’t say anything else without growing extremely angry. He doubted very much that he would continue to be welcome to the Armstrong family’s generosity if he woke them by shouting about how foolish and horrible they were, and how Olivier deserved better. What made him angriest of all was the realization that, to Olivier, it _mattered_. It mattered to her, that they weren’t proud of what she’d accomplished; that in excelling, she had let them down.

After a minute, he asked, “Is your mother always so, uh,-”

“Quick with a tongue-lashing?” Olivier smirked. “Yes. She doesn’t like to be embarrassed. Ironically, she usually causes the bigger scene with her lectures.”

“I don’t know,” Miles smirked back at her, “you did a pretty good job with these pajamas.”

“I didn’t know!” Olivier snarled. “It’s so hot here in Central, and I really thought it would just be Father and Alex! Besides,” she muttered, “Vanessa gave them to me, while you were changing. She said-” She shook her head abruptly. “It was stupid, nevermind.”

“What did she say?” His curiosity was piqued.

“She said it was okay to be feminine sometimes.” Olivier crossed her arms. “Also, she was teasing, but she said-” she was, surprisingly, blushing. “She said you would like them.” Miles allowed himself a chuckle, and was rewarded with a heavy stomp on his foot. “I _said_ it was stupid!”

\---

Miles awoke with a start. He lay still a minute, heart pounding, trying to place what had awoken him. Olivier, a fitful sleeper at the best of times, was still sound asleep in his arms. There were voices in the hall, probably the last of the men making their way up from the drawing room. Briggs had taught him there was no such thing as too careful, though, and he gently extricated himself from Olivier’s sleepy embrace and crept to the door.

“Armstrong’s gone soft, if you ask me.” The voice outside belonged, Miles thought, to Garand. “Letting his daughter act like that.” There was a murmur of assent, and Miles detected two other voices. “She needs to be taken in hand.” There was a slapping sound to punctuate his point.

Miles scowled, and wondered if it would be worth it to step outside and pummel the man. With a glance back at the still-sleeping woman in question, he decided it probably wasn’t. She’d pummel him just as hard, just for thinking she needed him to defend her honor.

“He’s getting desperate.” He didn’t recognize the second speaker. “No one will touch the other two as long as she’s on the market. That’s why he’s willing to drag out that old Armstrong tradition, the dowry.”

“A nice size one, too.” The third man, Miles recognized as Mauser. “Granted he’ll need more for the sisters, what with her assets against theirs-” There was raucous laughter, and Miles realized all three of the men had probably had more than a little alcohol. Disgusted, he turned and crawled back into bed.

Olivier, who was not cuddly when awake, nestled against him, winding her arms protectively around him. Miles grinned to himself, and kissed her hair. “Good luck,” he thought to the men outside “she’s already taken, _and_ she could take all of you in combat.”

\---

Breakfast was a strange affair. Miles nearly didn’t make it, getting lost and then happening to stumble on Major Armstrong who showed him the way. Olivier had settled herself at the head of the table with a newspaper which she didn’t look up from when they entered.

“Good morning, Sir.” He greeted her and then glanced at Alex who shrugged when she ignored him.

“What will you be having today, Master Armstrong? Major?” The butler appeared noiselessly. Miles wondered if he could train some of Briggs’ noisier recruits.

“Just my usual, thanks.” Alex slipped into a seat and frowned at his sister. “That’s Father’s chair.” She ignored him.

“Er-” Miles met the butler’s expectant stare uncertainly.

“Just give him the same as me.” Olivier closed her paper with an impressive snap. “And hurry it up, we have to go to Central Command this morning.”

“Will you ride with me, Sister?” Alex asked, looking delighted.

“What have I said about uniforms, numbskull?” She scowled at him. “I have my own car, I’ll take that.”

“Someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed!” Miles turned toward the newcomer in the doorway and then hastened to join Alex in rising.

“Strongine!” Alex boomed, hastening forward, arms outstretched. “And Amue!” A second woman appeared behind the first.

“Alex!” They both embraced him. Sparkles abounded.

“Major Miles, please allow me to introduce my sisters, Strongine and Amue!” The two women towered impressively.

“Why always ‘Strongine and Amue’?” The second woman mused, her voice comparatively softer than her sister’s. “I _am_ older.”

“Where did you two spring from?” Olivier hadn’t moved from her place at the head of the table.

“We keep a flat on the other side of the park.” Strongine told her, crossing the room with thunderous footsteps. “We heard our Livvie was back at the manor and we had to see it with our own eyes.” She bent and scooped her sister from the chair in powerful arms. “Yup! Real!”

“Put me down!” Olivier’s icy tone had been known to stop attackers in their tracks, and to reduce grown men to tears. Strongine laughed.

“Livvie, you do look so well!” Amue came up the other side of the table and she and Strongine flattened Olivier in a bone-crushing hug.

“Put me down!” Olivier repeated, sounding strangled. “Now!” They dropped her, and she fell on her rear with a thud.

“Are you alright, Sir?” Miles stepped forward quickly.

“Who might you be?” The sisters turned to him, and he froze in his tracks.

“General Armstrong’s adjutant.” He told them nervously.

“Oh.” They turned away again. “Livvie, you have a personal secretary? How wonderful!” Olivier who was pulling herself up off the floor, red-faced, didn’t respond.

“Come on, Major!” She barked, halfway out the door. “We’re going now!”

“Sister! What about your breakfast?” Major Armstrong called after them.

“Give it to the elephants!”

-

Olivier calmed enough to let them stop at a cafe and pick up breakfast and coffee on their way into Central Command for their meeting. Miles stood behind her, against the wall, with all the other adjutants and aides while the general’s convened. It was a dull, bureaucratic event that in no way necessitated Olivier’s presence, making Miles suspect her parents had asked to have her summoned for the express purpose of segueing into making her stay for a whole week.

Afterward, an aide came up to Olivier with a folder and informed her Lt. General Blackburn had ordered a meeting about the investigation she had helped him with. Olivier took it with an angry sneer, but had gone quiet after reading the file.

She led him down to the lower floors of the command center, and he became confused as she started down a narrow stairwell to the basement. As they turned the corner in the stairs the light flickered, as it came back on Miles noted how sections of the wall had been repainted in a shade not-quite right that didn’t quite conceal that once blood had been splattered on the wall.

With a sickening drop of his stomach, Miles saw, playing out before his eyes like a twisted picture show, how easily her former adjutant could have lunged in that tight, silent, space, the way the knife would have dug into her flesh. How she would have leapt, struggling to keep her footing on the stairs and slammed, bleeding, into the wall. The fight would have dragged out into the hallway, where she would have been able to draw her sword, and ended gruesomely with a headless corpse sprawled on the ground.

He reached forward and, gently, placed a hand on her waist. Even through the thick layers of her uniform he brushed right over the scar and she tensed. Realization cut through him like a northern wind on the Fort roof; as much as it was his job to protect her, as much as he would give his life for hers-his general, his wife, his queen-he still posed the greatest threat to her. She stopped walking and placed a hand over his, squeezing it gently, conveying her trust, and then she pulled away and they resumed their walk.

“I understand, soldier, that you recently had a meeting with General Grumman.” Blackburn announced when they entered the meeting room. Neither of them answered, still frozen with their hands up to salute. Blackburn smirked and saluted after a long minute. “Well?”

“Well, what, Sir?”

“What was your meeting about?”

“We were conducting North-East joint training, Sir.”

“You expect me to believe that’s all you were doing?”

“I don’t expect you to do anything, Sir, I’m merely answering your question.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Hmm.” Blackburn narrowed his eyes at her, then turned to Miles. “What do you think, Major?”

“I don’t think anything, Sir, I follow orders.”

Blackburn laughed. “At least you admit it. Most Ishvalans are too stupid to know they’re stupid.”

“Was there anything else, Sir?” Olivier sneered. “Or was this whole thing arranged with intimidation in mind?”

“Did it work?”

“No.” Blackburn raised a brow and she spat, “I mean, no, Sir.”

Blackburn stepped forward, suddenly crowding her, but she refused to give way. “I have my eye on you, Armstrong.”

“If I were you, I’d keep your eye on my sword.” Olivier smiled darkly. “Sir.” Miles’ and Blackburn both looked down to see the tip of Olivier’s drawn sword resting on the top of his foot.

“Are you threatening me?”

“Not at all, Sir, merely pointing out how easy it would be for an opponent to incapacitate you. And if that were to happen, who knows what might happen to you.”

Blackburn swallowed and stepped back, searching Olivier’s face for anything he could use against her. But in the quiet, dark, basement he was as powerless as he had tried to make her feel. “Dismissed.”

\---

By midday they had concluded their official visit to Central High Command and Olivier reluctantly allowed Miles to drive her back to the manor, after a quick stop in the mess for lunch.

“I really hoped that would take longer.” Olivier told him as they mounted the steps to her parent’s front door. “I have to do this stupid tea ritual with Catherine.”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” He told her, the smirk on his face indicating he was not, of course, sorry.

“Shut it, Miles.” She marched determinedly up toward her room, stopping abruptly. “Go change into civvies and meet me back here. I want to show you something.”

Miles made it back to the front hall, where Olivier was already waiting, twenty minutes later. “Took you long enough.” She groused at him.

“Sorry, Sir. These cufflinks are harder than they look.” She rolled her eyes and set off. Miles followed her up one flight of stairs and down a totally different wing then the one he was staying in.

“The Armstrong family library.” Olivier announced throwing open a heavy double door. Miles stared, awestruck. The room was two stories tall, lined with books all round. There were several cozy looking reading spots interspersed throughout, and half-height shelves wove a veritable maze around the room. “Pick whatever you’d like, occupy yourself while I do this tea thing.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Miles stepped into the room, and inhaled the sweet scent of books. “I don’t even know where to begin.” He admitted, looking around.

“Those mystery novels you like so much are over here.” Olivier guided him, sounding amused. “Over there are the Armstrong family tomes. If you’d like to be bored to death, I’d recommend them.”

“Oh! You have the newest one by-” He broke off at her amused smirk, and picked up the latest book in his favorite series, blushing slightly. He settled in the nearest armchair, and flipped it open eagerly. Olivier stood and, hands in her pockets, watched him read for a surprisingly long time.

“Alright, have fun, then.” She shook her head and turned to leave. She paused, suddenly and ruffled his ponytail lovingly. “I’ll see you if I don’t drown in tea first.” Miles, engrossed in his book, gave her only a swift grin in response.

-

About ten minutes later, Miles noted soft footsteps creeping into the room. He glanced up, curiously, and saw for the first time, Olivier’s youngest sister. She glanced at him, quickly, and then looked away with a furious blush. She picked a book and then slowly made her way to sit in the armchair across from him. Miles looked up periodically to find her looking at him and then hastily at her book. After a few minutes of this, he lowered his book.

“Miss Catherine, I presume?” She nodded, shyly, and lowered her book. “May I help you?”

“Mister Miles, you’re my sister’s secretary aren’t you?”

“Adjutant.” He corrected. “But, yes.”

“Right.” Catherine fidgeted with the book in her hands. “I don’t really know Olivier, I was little when she moved out. But, Alex adores her, and he’s older so he knows.” She rocked back and forth, uncertainly. “The thing is in society, they talk. They say the most awful things about her, and-”

“You want to know if what they say is true?” Miles guessed. Catherine nodded. “I don’t know what they say, but I can guess. She’s an incredible soldier, just and loyal, stronger than any man. Your sister is a good woman. She rose to the top by her own merit.” Miles studied the young woman, thoughtfully. “She acts cold, but she loves her family.” He left off the fact that he really couldn’t see _why_.

“Miss Catherine!” A voice called down the hall. “It’s time for your tea!”

Catherine jumped up and darted toward the door. “Thank you, Mister Miles!”

Bemused, Miles returned to his book. The Armstrong family was weird, no doubt about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to any Armstrong parents fans, but they always set me on edge. 
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	23. Blinded by Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Tuesday! 
> 
> I hope you enjoy this angsty chapter. To warn you, this chapter and the next, have discussions of racism/racial violence, and child abuse.

_Little Florentino Miles kicked at his blankets and huffed. Elle and baby Ian were sleeping, but he couldn’t manage it, besides he could hear the murmur of the voices of the adults downstairs. If he went down Mother would scold him and send him back to bed, but Grandmother was here, and she’d probably fix him a cup of warm milk and let him snuggle on her lap while he drank it. He liked Grandmother a lot, she had dark brown eyes that crinkled when she smiled, she gave the best hugs, and she smelled like cinnamon._

_Mind made up, the child swung himself out of bed and padded across the room and down the stairs; his footed pajamas made the trek a little riskier than normal, but he made it without falling. Angry voices in the kitchen made him pause, peering in the crack of the door uncertainly. Grandmother and Grandfather were on one side of the kitchen, Grandda and Grandma on the other. Father and Mother were between them, and even a child could see how tense they all were._

_“It was bad enough, Ida, when you married him, but now-”_

_Flor, as he was often called, frowned in confusion._

_“He has a name, Da!” Mother interjected, hands bawling in tight fists._

_“Teh. No need to hash out old arguments.” Father shrugged, easily._

_“I just don’t know how you feel safe with a half-breed like that in the house!”_

_“He’s not even four!” Grandmother snapped. “How can you-?”_

_“He has the eyes of a demon!” Grandda muttered._

_“Do_ I _look like a demon to you?” Grandfather rumbled._

 _“You can say what you like about me, but don’t you_ ever _insult my children.” Father stepped forward, but Grandmother gripped his arm._

_“He’s a demon half-breed!” Grandda snarled. “Like the rest of the red-eyed freaks!”_

_Florentino didn’t mean to, but he let out a cry of fear. It was quiet, but Grandfather’s head snapped in his direction and his red eyes widened. While the other adults snarled at each other he crossed the kitchen, pushed the door open a little further, and knelt before his grandson._

_“Hello, Florentino.”_

_Wide-eyed, the child stepped back, hiding behind the door. Grandfather scared him a little, he was a big man, with a somber expression, sideburns “sharp enough to cut you” (as Father liked to chuckle) and fierce red eyes._

_“Do you want to come out?” Up close, his eyes twinkled, and a smile softened his features. Tentatively, a small hand reached out to touch the sideburns and yanked back quickly. Surprised, it went back and patted them again. They weren’t sharp at all, but thick and soft, not at all unlike the tufts of white hair that made the child look like a dandelion seed-puff. Grandfather chuckled and scooped him up._

“I think,” and his deep voice silenced the other’s even though he spoke quietly, “we’ve rather lost the plot.”

_“Oh, Flor!” Mother hastened forward. “How long were you standing there?!”_

_“Rather long enough, I think.” Grandfather said, warningly. “Little pitchers have big ears.” He chuckled again when Flor clamped his hands over his ears, nervously._

_“How can you look at him and say such things, Ma?” Mother almost whispered. “He’s my_ son _.”_

_“Have you thought more about our offer, dear?” Grandmother asked, softly. “It’s hard enough to be the different one when you’re an adult--for little Florentino to grow up in this environment-”_

_“This is a mixed neighborhood, Mother.” Father told her. “We chose it specifically.”_

_“You want our daughter to live here?” Grandda asked. “If you went somewhere else, without him, then no one would have to know-”_

_“You think I’m ashamed of my heritage?”_

_“Don’t leave me!” Florentino spoke for the first time since entering the kitchen, terror making him cry. “I’m a good boy! Don’t go wiff-out me!”_

_Mother burst into tears._

_“No one’s going anywhere, love.” Father took him out of Grandfather’s arms and held him tightly. “It’s okay, shh. We’re not going to leave you.”_

_“P-promise?”_

_“I promise.”_

\---

“Miles!” Olivier stomped into the library, snapping Miles out of his reverie. Her shirt had a large tea stain on the front, and something in her hair looked suspiciously like jam.

“Yes, Sir?” Miles took in her disheveled appearance with a slight smirk.

“Follow me.”

He obediently put down his book and followed her up to the second floor balcony of the library. She opened a window and climbed out onto a ledge. “Um, Sir?”

“I said to follow me, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Sir.” He scrambled out after her and she climbed gracefully up a series of quoins as easily as though the narrow brick projections were a ladder. Swallowing, he followed her up to the third floor ledge and then began a slow, inching, journey across the side of the house. Finally they dropped onto a balcony and he gripped the railing like it might suddenly give way, and gasped for air.

“Are you alright?” She sounded more amused than concerned.

“Yes, Sir.”

“It’s just us.”

He looked up at that and saw she was leaning against a glass-paned double door, hands on the handles behind her. “Olivier, what’s going on?”

“I want to show you something.” She shrugged. “It’s pretty pointless, but this whole tea thing was all about childhood and memories, and other idiotic drivel.”

“Is that your bedroom?” He asked, curiously.

She nodded. “I’ll warn you, it’s a horrible place.” She drew a breath. “Ready?”

He nodded, and she stepped back pushing the doors open. Miles followed her, not sure what to expect. He blinked as he took it in. Well, whatever he had been expecting her room wasn’t it.

Olivier’s childhood bedroom was _pink_. The walls were a very soft shade of pink, her four poster bed was done in pink-and-white gingham with matching curtains. The wood floor was covered with multiple fluffy rugs in varying shades of pink and white. She had a bookshelf, dresser, desk, and chair, all in white. But her little vanity was pink and all through the room were delicate pink figurines and perfume bottles and vases of pink flowers.

“It’s so-”

“Awful.” Olivier supplied, when he could only stare. “My governess suggested that it would help counteract my ‘embarrassing proclivity toward the masculine’ and my parents bought it.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t destroy these.” Miles remarked, touching a pink-and-gold statuette of a dancing fairy.

“Look closer.”

He did. “Oh.” The little statuette bore the marks of having been broken and repaired many times, both with and without alchemy. “Did you spend a lot of time in here?” He asked, making his way around the room and examining everything in turn. The room was larger than his family’s living room in East City.

“Not if I could help it.” She shrugged. “I liked it when I was little and my parents let me pick the color and Omi would sit and read with me.”

Miles smiled softly. “What color was it?”

“Green. Like the flag.”

He chuckled at that, somehow not surprised. “Sounds nice.”

“It was. But then Graves turned it pink, and I was only in here when I was in trouble.”

“Graves?”

“Madame Graves was my governess from eight to eighteen.” Her tone did not invite further comment.

A photo album caught his eye and he tugged it off the bookshelf. “What’s this?”

“Oh, that’s just- My mother- Don’t-”

Miles flipped it open and grinned at the black and white photo of chubby-cheeked baby staring up at the camera. “This is you?”

“Don’t rub it in.”

He chuckled and went to perch on her bed, carefully turning the pages. After a moment she yanked the album from his fingers, and he almost protested, but she tossed it onto her pillow and moved to lie on her stomach. He hastened to stretch out beside her.

Sounding irritated, she took him through the photos, muttering cynical observations alongside her explanations. “This was at my first birthday party. Heaven only knows why it was that fancy, I certainly don’t remember it,” or “I think this was when Strongine was born. They covered her with so many bows because otherwise people would think my father had gotten his heir.”

She stopped abruptly on a photo of her holding a baby. She was sitting, stiffly, upright in a high-backed chair and looked even more sour than usual (her angrily disinterested expression had set in early in life, Miles discovered).

“Alex?” He asked when she scowled at the photo.

“Yes.” He watched her and waited as she seemed to lose herself in studying the photo. “The day he was born, my father laughed at me for thinking I was his heir. That was also when he decided I had too much freedom and replaced Omi with Graves.”

Miles turned the page and found a photo of Olivier with her governess, a stern-looking woman with perfect posture and a long, thin, cane. Oliver rolled onto her back and glared up at the canopy as though it were personally responsible for her irritation. Miles kept flipping through, smiling a little at the various frilly outfits she was consistently forced into.

“Are you alright, Liv?” He asked as he closed the album, turning to look at her.

She nodded, gaze still fixed on the canopy. Miles rolled over to see what was so interesting about it, and found it had been slashed to pieces. “I don’t have a lot of good memories in here.”

“Ah.” Miles glanced around, and then smiled a bit mischievously. “Is the door locked?”

“Yes.” Her brow furrowed. “Why?”

His mischievous smile stretched into a grin and he pounced, pinning her to the mattress, and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Want to make some better ones?”

She answered him with a kiss.

\---

Miles was once again reading in the library when Olivier got sick of dealing with her family. (He tried to avoid eavesdropping, but she seemed to be arguing with her mother about “settling down”.) “I need some time alone.” She announced. “Come stand watch over my door.”

“Can’t you just lock it, Sir?” He asked, perhaps a bit more boldly than an adjutant should, but he was enjoying his book immensely.

“I can and I will.” She rolled her eyes. “But, I’m not actually going to be there. I just need a diversion, aka you.”

“Where will you be?” He asked with a frown. He didn’t really like the idea of her wandering alone, though he reminded himself Armstrong Manor was far less treacherous than Briggs.

“Around.” She told him, vaguely. “Come on.” She posted him outside her bedroom door and marched away. Miles wondered if he had done something to anger her. Probably not, he mused, but the manor set her on edge and he was a convenient target for her irritation. Staring blankly at the wall across from him, he pondered how long she would leave him there.

“Hey, Major, is it? I need a word with my cousin.” Miles glanced, sideways, at the man who approached him. He recognized his voice as the man who had mentioned the dowry in the hall outside his room. Garand and Mauser were following him.

“The General isn’t receiving anyone.” He replied, stiffly.

“Tell her, it’s her cousin.” The man glowered, arms crossed. Miles realized the large man was trying to intimidate him.

“Which one?”

“Eric Armstrong, the Second.”

“Ah. No, still not receiving anyone, Mr. Armstrong.”

“You are a guest in this house, Major Miles. You would do well to remember that.” Eric took a menacing step forward.

“As are you.” Miles countered, calmly. “The General does not wish to be disturbed.”

“Just let me pass.” Eric grabbed for the door handle.

Miles blocked his path with a single side-step. “I would not advise continuing on this course.” He cautioned.

“As a member of the Armstrong family, I order you to step aside.” Eric told him confidently. If Miles had been a servant it might have worked.

“I report to General Armstrong who reports to the Fuhrer. I respect no other authority.” Miles intoned, without moving. It was a slight lie, but since Eric was decidedly not a member of High Command it was one he was comfortable with.

“Why you-” Eric fumed. If Miles had been more familiar with the Armstrong family tree he might have realized Eric Armstrong, the Second, was the one with the infamous temper. Further, he might have seen the fist that collided with his face coming. As it stood, Miles was taken by surprise. His glasses cracked and fell to the floor, blood spewed from his nose. He reacted on pure instinct, driving his own fist into the hot headed man’s stomach.

Garand and Mauser were on him in seconds, grabbing his arms and pinning him to the wall. He broke Garand’s grip readily, but Mauser proved a little more difficult. Eric righted himself and raised a fist again. His gaze met Miles’, as he struggled. He gasped.

“Ishvalan dog!” He spat directly on Miles’ face. Any hope of a quick end to the fight vanished now that Eric knew _what_ he was.

Miles rubbed the saliva away with his free hand, and redoubled his effort to break Mauser’s grip. Eric’s heavy fists slammed into his stomach and rib cage, Miles found the wind knocked out of him, and struggled to breath. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a flickering sparkle, and blonde hair whipping out of sight. Garand reclaimed his grip on Miles’ left wrist, slamming it against the wall. There was a loud cracking sound and pain jolted through his arm.

“How dare you, you filthy mongrel.” Eric’s eyes were glowing, and Miles caught a glimpse of the dark side of the Armstrong family. Eric punched him again, and he slid to the floor. A heavy boot kicked his ribs.

“Leave him!” Olivier rounded the corner, sword drawn, eyes glowing and sparkles circling her. Garand and Mauser released him and stepped back, uncertain. Catherine’s frightened face peered around after her.

“Cousin! Your adjutant is Ishvalan!” Eric accused.

“I know what he is, Eric.” Olivier snarled. “I’m still deciding about you, though. Alive or dead?”

“You wouldn’t.” Eric glowered. “She’s just a woman.” He snarled at his lackeys. “Why are you standing there?”

“Just a woman?!” Olivier advanced, darkly. “I am a Major General in the Amestrian military. You three are spoiled boys playing at being men.”

Garand, foolishly, took a step toward her fists raised. Olivier lifted her sword and brought the hilt down on his head with a mighty crack. He staggered back, clutching his head. Mauser took one look at him and bolted. Garand looked from one Armstrong to the other, before following.

“Get out of my house, Eric.” Olivier swiftly closed the distance between them and placed her sword on his throat. “Now.” Her fingers twitched slightly, and the blade shifted on his neck. Frightened, the young man turned on his heel and fled. Olivier dropped her sword and knelt over Miles. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, Sir.” He tried to push himself up but his broken wrist betrayed him. Unintentionally, he cried out.

“Catherine, go fetch me a medical kit!” Olivier barked at her sister who vanished immediately. “Come on, Miles.” Olivier slipped an arm under his shoulder and helped him stand. She pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked the door to her old bedroom. She guided him through the blindingly pink bedroom and into the ensuite bathroom.

“Here.” She tore off her blouse and pushed rolled strips of it into his nose. “You’re bleeding on my floor.”

“Sorry, Sir.” Miles managed, as Olivier wiped her hands on her undershirt.

“Here, sit.” She lowered him on the edge of a massive clawfoot tub. “Let me see your injuries.” She pulled off his shirt carefully, giving up and tearing the left sleeve when she couldn’t maneuver it painlessly over his broken wrist. “How on earth, did my best man let himself get so beaten up by three pansies?” She asked, scowling at the bruises spreading across his ribcage. She knelt beside the tub, and pressed her fingers against the spot where the boot had gotten him. Miles’ breath caught painfully. “This feels fractured.” He caught worry in her voice.

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Miles ground out, waves of nausea overcoming him. “I learned a long time ago, fighting back only gets me in more trouble in these situations.”

“Because of your eyes?” Olivier shifted her focus from his injuries to his face. “Oh, love.” She gave him a sad smile, reaching up to touch his cheek.

“Come home with me?”

“What?” She regarded him, surprised. “To Briggs?”

“No.” He shook his head, and regretted it immediately, as it began pounding. “Thursday, the schedule is blank. Come to East City with me. Meet my family. Be Mira Miles for a day.”

“I-”

“Olivier!” Olivier’s parents swept in, followed by Catherine who looked even more frightened than before. “What’s happened?” Angelica demanded, taking in Miles sitting shirtless on the edge of the tub, and the blood smeared on both of them.

“Cousin Eric lost his temper is all.” Olivier waved her off. “You can go, I’ll take care of this.”

“I think not.” Philip frowned. “Catherine go send for Dr. Enfield.” Catherine scurried away, only after she handed Olivier the medical kit she was holding. Olivier took it and began dabbing sanitizer on Miles’ face.

“Philip, I told you I didn’t want your brother or his sons here.”

“It’s tradition!” Philip looked scandalized, but then he sighed heavily. “But, you were right, as usual, Angelica. I’ll have them sent home.”

“Stop letting Uncle Eric talk you into things, Father.” Olivier told him, angrily. “I know the dowry was his idea.”

“I don’t know what you-”

“Don’t play innocent.” Olivier started dabbing a soothing cold cream on Miles’ eye. “I know Uncle Eric convinced you to offer a dowry for me. Split in half and add it to Strongine and Amue’s dowries. If they want them, either. They have careers, their own flat, I rather think they’re happy with the single life.”

“Olivier, don’t disrespect your father like that!” Angelica gave Miles a meaningful glance. Miles was too busy trying to make the world stop swaying to care too much about the family argument unfolding before him.

“Now, dear, Olivier is a grown woman. She is allowed to have her own opinion. Do you think I should undo another family tradition, Livvie?”

“I think you should stop staring into the past, and look at the family that’s in front of your nose, Father.”

“Honestly, Olivier! I sometimes wish you weren’t too old for a governess! Mrs. Graves always kept you in line better than I could.”

“If you wish to have me caned, Mother, do it yourself. Or don’t you have the guts?” Angelica’s words had obviously struck a nerve. Olivier wiped blood off Miles’ face somewhat forcefully, hands shaking.

“Olivier!” Her father gasped. “ _Whatever_ do you mean?”

“Mrs. Graves ‘kept me in line’ with that horrible walking stick of hers.” Olivier stopped trying to clean Miles’ wounds at all. She lowered her hands, resting them on the edge of the tub beside Miles.

“She did _what?!_ ” Philip thundered, angrier than Miles would have imagined possible for the normally jovial man. “Why didn’t you say anything?!”

Miles contemplated patting Olivier’s hand, the best he could manage under the circumstance, but he was afraid he would fall backwards if he released his death grip on the edge of the tub.

“I thought you knew.” Olivier was staring at her hands, suddenly still and bewildered. She looked more like a lost child than anything, and Miles’ heart broke. _Why did no one else_ see _her?_ "It wasn't all the time or anything, but-" she frowned, bewildered. "You didn't know?"

“No, of course not!” Philip nearly knocked Miles over as he knelt and embraced his daughter. “How could you think we would have allowed that?” He was an emotional man, and tears were flowing down his cheeks.

“You sent away Omi. And then Mrs. Graves came, I thought-” Whatever Olivier thought, she didn’t say it.

“We sent away Omi because you were too old for a nanny. Mrs. Graves was so highly recommended, we wanted the best for you. And you did behave better after she came.” Angelica stroked her daughter’s hair and cleared her throat, delicately. “While you were at the Academy it came to light that she was mistreating little Amelia Dunhurst, you remember the Dunhursts, don’t you? Anyway, I should have realized something was wrong, darling; You were so sour after she came. But I assumed, well, Omi did rather spoil you, and-”

“You expect me to believe that Omi’s being Ishvalan didn’t have anything to do with it?”

Angelica looked genuinely puzzled. “What? Why would _that_ matter?”

“You sent her away. And then all the other Ishvalan servants. Why?”

“I told you, you were too old for a nanny, And, the others,” she glanced suddenly up at Miles, taking in his red eyes. He gave her a kind of grimacing smile, trying not to interrupt by blacking out. “Do you remember that man who was killed by his gardener, when you were about nine?” Olivier nodded. “Well, his gardener was Ishvalan, and we thought-”

“You thought all Ishvalans were the same?” Olivier demanded, angrily. “So, might as well send them away! Barely even human, so who cares?”

“Do you really think that?!” Angelica stared at her. “All these years, Livvie...How did we fail you so badly?”

Miles had a few ideas how, but decided it would be wisest to remain silent.

“The gardener was framed, Livvie.” Philip wiped away some of his tears. “But no one cared, there was a mob-” He shook his head. “It wasn’t safe to be an Ishvalan in the city. We gave them all generous severance pay and sent them home, where we thought they would be safe. They were, until the war, of course. But, Livvie, how could you think-?”

Miles didn’t recognize the sound that came out of Olivier, it was somewhere between a scream and a wail. Her shoulders shook, and she slumped over the tub. Somewhere inside her a dam had broken and she wept. Miles stared. He reached out cautiously, realizing her parents were as shocked as he was. He managed to pat her shoulder once before the darkness claimed him and he toppled forward off the tub.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I welcome your comments/thoughts.


	24. Memories in Red

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, guys, I think this is the last really painful chapter. 
> 
> Like I mentioned at the start of the last chapter this has a lot of discussion of racism/racial violence and child abuse.

_“Listen to me, Da.” Mother was speaking in a tone Flor barely recognized. “You’re leaving tomorrow, and if you want to be welcome back, things will have to change. Florentino is my son and I love him. You will not speak ill of him in the presence of anyone in the family. You will not single him out. If I catch you so much as looking at him sideways, you will never see any of your grandchildren again. Do you understand me?”_

_“Ida-”_

_“Don’t you dare, Da. I’m serious.”_

Pain surged through Miles and he trashed, blindly. A hand, too large and too soft to be Olivier’s, pressed his shoulder down. “It’s alright, Major. Calm down.” A man’s voice told him. “You’re alright now.”

_The factory was engulfed in flames. Miles’ heart pounded and he could barely breathe in the smoky air, but he hefted another bucket and passed it down the line. There was a fire to put out; worrying could wait._

_“Get back!” Someone was shouting and the teens obediently scarpered. Miles scanned the crowd for his siblings, thankfully they were all accounted for. He chased them further from the fires, now that they were not needed to run buckets of water and damp rags._

_Frantically, he began to search for Father. He heard him, shouting and arguing with the foreman. “They’re still inside! They’re trapped!”_

_“Let it go, Miles!”_

_“They’ll die!” Father was physically struggling against the foreman, trying to run back toward the burning building._

“You’ll _die if you go back in!” The foreman argued, “You’ll get in the way of the firefighters!”_

_“They won’t try to save them, they’re Ish-” and Father doubled over, coughing, then kept going, collapsing onto the ground, gasping and retching. Miles ran to him._

_“Is it true?” He demanded of the foreman even as knelt over his father._

_“Just-” the foreman faltered for a moment. “Just get him to to the hospital, son. And hurry--he has smoke in his lungs.”_

“Miles, calm down, breathe.” The man’s voice interrupted again. Light was flickering somewhere, but he couldn’t open his eyes to see it. “You’re safe. _Breathe.”_

__

__

_He was perched on the rooftop, sniper rifle in his hands. It felt wrong, but he ignored the thought, he was a soldier; this was what he did. Drachma looked wrong, too, the snow was bathed in an orange light and the usually howling wind was still._

_Soldiers appeared on the horizon and he began to fire. He watched, grimly, as the soldiers fell. But they were wrong, too. Where were the heavy fur coats? The tactical equipment and advanced weaponry?_

_Horror flooded him when he got a better look. There were no fur coats, because it wasn’t Drachma at all. The orange glow was the sand of Ishval. Red eyes seemed to pierce him across the distance, demanding answers. Answers to questions he never wanted to ask, “Why?” “Why do you live, and we die?” Worst of all, their dying eyes accused him. “Traitor.” “Bloodstained.”_

_Something sticky and red was spreading over his hands, ruining his white gloves. He tore them off, horrified, but to no avail; the blood spread over his uniform. He leapt up, tearing at the blue wool, but then there was a searing heat. The world was on fire._

_He shouted out a warning, but it was drowned out by the agonized screaming of the Ishvalans. The flames licked at him, and then he was engulfed. He thrashed and tore at his clothes, trying to put out the flames, or perhaps to climb out of his own skin. He was burning, screaming in agony, and then there was_ nothing.

-

Miles awoke in a soft, pink, bed. His eyes fluttered open, adjusting to the weak orange-ish light of a sunset, and found himself staring into the face of an unfamiliar man.

“Hello, there Major. I’m Doctor Enfield; the Enfield family has been providing physicians to the Armstrong family for generations.” The man smiled at him, a small sparkle twinkling above his head. “You gave the Armstrongs quite the scare.”

“How-?” Miles started. He felt very different, but he wasn’t sure why.

“Oh, I use a little alchemy with my medicine. I can’t say you liked that, had to give you a little sedative.” The doctor smiled benignly and patted his shoulder. “I mended all your broken bones, and reduced the swelling on your face. You’re going to be quite sore for a few days, I’m afraid, but that’s better than broken bones, right?”

“Where am I?” Miles blinked up at the badly-shredded pink canopy above him. Looking around, he realized the bed looked as though someone had attempted to destroy it. Repeatedly. The bedposts were splintered, whole chunks hewn from the mahogany wood. It looked familiar, but he was so dazed he couldn’t place it.

“Still in Miss Armstrong’s childhood bedroom, I believe.” The doctor continued smiling benevolently down at him. “Would you like me to fetch her for you?”

“Yes, please.” Miles touched his head which ached, but was no longer pounding. “Thank you, Doctor.”

“No trouble at all, my good man.”

A minute later the door flew open. “Miles! You frightened me.”

“Sorry, Sir.” Miles frowned. “Er, Olivier.”

“Did he check your head?” Olivier asked as she began rearranging his pillows. She helped him sit up, carefully.

“He did, thanks.” He rolled his eyes at her, and she frowned in response.

“You sound different.”

“Huh?”

“When you’ve just woken up, or you’re in pain, you sound different.” Seeing his confused expression, she clarified. “You have an accent.”

“Oh.” He grimaced. When he spoke next he cleared the rough edges of his impoverished upbringing and the lilt of his grandfather’s tongue, and spoke in his usual, polished, way. “What happened?”

She gave him a long look, but didn’t call him on it. “You blacked out. It’s a normal result of broken bones. The doctor was surprised you lasted as long as you did.”

“Right. What about with your parents?” He decided not to mention her tears.

“They’ll be fine.” She paused. “I think they’re in a bit of shock, but they’ll recover.”

“What about you?” He reached over and took her hand, pulling her to sit on the mattress beside him.

“I’m always fine, Miles.” She rubbed his hand with her thumb, gently. “It’s you who got used as a human punching bag.”

He shrugged. “It’s not like it was the first time.”

“That doesn’t make it better, idiot.” He chuckled, and then winced. “You’re only proving my point.” Her mouth twitched for a second, then she leaned down to kiss his forehead. “What was?”

“Sorry, what was what?”

“The first time someone beat you up for-” she indicated his eyes, “your heritage?”

“When I was a kid there was this store owner who was a real grouch. Always running us kids off even if we were behaving perfectly.” Miles shifted, and Olivier raised an eyebrow at him. “Anyway, one time my friend Kirk convinced me, and this was stupid, by the way, but we were kids, and he convinced me we should steal some candy. Just a couple cens worth, because he was always accusing us of stuff we didn’t do.” Olivier snorted, drily. Miles watched her rubbing gentle circles on the back of his hand for a minute.

“Unsurprisingly, he caught us. Kirk was pure-blooded Amestrian, like you.” It was Olivier’s turn to shift uncomfortably. “The owner chewed us both out and sent Kirk home. I went to leave, too, but-

_“Where do you think you’re going, you filthy little-”_

_“Ouch!” Miles yelped as the old man gripped his ponytail and yanked him back. “Ow! Lemme go!” Kirk was already across the street, too caught up in his near miss to notice he wasn’t being followed._

_“This used to be a nice neighborhood!” The old man hissed, face purpling with rage. “Until the Ishvalan scum came and started breeding with our girls. Inhuman freaks like you are the result.” He spat on his face._

_“Please, just let me go!” Miles scrabbled desperately at the back of his head, eyes stinging._

_“Just like that?” With a harsh snort, the storekeeper shook him. “Then you wouldn’t learn anything. You’re an aberration, scum, but even a freak needs to be taught.”_

_“I’m sorry!” Miles sobbed. “I won’t do it again!”_

_“No, you won’t!” He gave Miles a shove, slamming him against the counter. “I’m going to make sure of that.”_

_Miles wasn’t sure whether he felt or heard the crack of the store keeper’s cane descending first. He screamed. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Stop!” He writhed, desperately trying to escape. The blows kept coming; and so did Miles’ pleas._

_“Hey!” Kirk’s father, a man built like a bull, bellowed like one. “You let him go, ya hear?” Miles fell to the floor as soon as the grip on his hair loosened, still sobbing. “Hey, buddy.” Strong arms hefted him easily, and blue eyes regarded him kindly. “Kirk was scared, asked me to check on you.” Miles planted his face in his shoulder. “I’m going to take you home, okay, kid?”_

_Mother was furious, determined to march down to the store and give the shopkeeper a piece of her mind. Father only shook his head sadly._

_“Oh, Miles,” he murmured, taking him into his arms and rubbing his back soothingly, “some people will only be able to see your eyes, and they’ll never see who you really are.They will_ hate _you, for no reason other than your heritage.” He sighed, tiredly, running a hand over his face. “Son, I wish it wasn’t this way, but it is. You have to never give them a reason to act on that hate. Kids like Kirk, it’s not his fault, but they get certain privileges and you don’t.”_

“I’m sorry, Miles.”

“It’s not your fault, love.” He took her other hand with a slight wince as his wrist twinged. “Why did Madame Graves-?”

“Please don’t.” Olivier pulled her hands free. "I don't want to talk about it."

“Alright.” Miles took her hands back. “Let me talk, then. I grew up in the bad part of East City. Being part Ishvalan wasn’t that rare, but it didn’t make you popular. No one wanted to claim you, not the Amestrians, not the Ishvalans. My grandfather made me go out to his home in Ishval every summer and learn.He wanted me to be Ishvalan, but I couldn’t, not really. I felt like I was being pulled between two worlds. When I joined the military, it broke his heart.” He paused. “That’s why I have such an odd accent. I spent years unlearning it.”

“I’m sorry.” Olivier murmured again.

“Don’t be. That’s just how it was.” Miles glanced at the door, which was firmly shut. “I had my family on my side, though, I never doubted how much they loved me.” He sighed, pulling her hands up and kissing them, gently. “Did I ever tell you about the time I got jumped in the school yard?” He chuckled wryly, and corrected himself. “Well, the first time?”

“No.” She scowled, not at him, but at the fact it had happened at all. “What happened?”

“I was probably eight or so, I’m not sure, but it was awhile after that whole candy debacle. I stayed late after school to help clean the chalkboards, it was a rotational duty, just something you had to do every few weeks. Anyway, the teacher went home and I stopped to clean up at the old water pump in the yard. My mother wouldn’t let me in the house all covered in chalk dust. No one’s mother would have. There had been a bad dust-up between an Ishvalan man and an Amestrian one that week, but I didn’t know that. I guess the older boys did, though, so they waited in the school yard. There was maybe five of them and they roughed me up real good. They told me I could never amount to anything. You know what the worst part was?”

She shook her head. “I believed them. I really thought those bullies were right.” He scowled at the canopy above him.

“What changed your mind?”

“Elle. She’s a real fighter, you’d like her. She marched right up to the ring-leader, and popped him on the nose. She screeched at him like a desert owl, and called him a pathetic little liar.”

" _That_ made you feel better?”

Miles chuckled. “I guess that does sound pretty silly, but yes. I felt a lot better after that.”

“Mmh.” She hummed, thoughtfully. “Do you still want to go home? On Thursday, I mean?”

“I would love that, but I understand if you don’t want to.” He squeezed her hands, reassuringly.

“No, I would like to.” She fixed him with a steely stare. “Meet the woman who raised you, and the crazy desert owl who you love so much.”

“I love all my siblings.” He told her, unable to conceal his smile. “If you can provide me with a private line, I can call and prepare them.” Olivier rose and crossed the room to a desk, and pulled the phone from it. The cord stretched taught, but reached the bed, just barely.

“Just one question,” Olivier clutched the phone, as Miles reached for it. “What’s Mira Miles like?”

He chuckled and took the phone. “You’re Mira Miles, too, love. She’s just you, in disguise.”

Olivier scowled at him.

\---

The Armstrongs may not have known he was their in-law, but they closed rank protectively around Miles, anyway. He was not, over the course of the next few days, left alone. Whenever Olivier, as Catherine’s oldest sister, had duties to fulfill in preparation for the upcoming debutante ball, Miles found himself keeping company with any one of the other Armstrongs. Strongine and Amue, who were almost never out of each other’s company, were a lawyer and a hairdresser, respectively. Miles learned far more about hairdressing and obscure laws that week than he ever wanted.

Philip had drawn him aside, and demanded his discretion in the matter of Olivier’s breakdown and the things she had revealed. Miles had agreed readily, not needing the veiled threat about his tenuous position in the military, but had understood it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aack, I'm a horrible person. Poor Miles. :( 
> 
> As always, I absolutely love hearing your thoughts.


	25. No Place Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! You may have noticed this chapter took longer to come out. I've decided to slowdown to once a week to make it easier for people to keep up. 
> 
> Also, I've decided to use square brackets [like this] to denote when characters are speaking in Ishvalan, just for simplicity's sake.

Thursday morning they struck out for the early train to East City before the sun even rose. Olivier’s parents, who seemed suddenly incapable of denying her anything, had not even questioned it when she had told them business would take them away a mere day before the ball. They slipped out easily, and no one even saw the civilian clothing that would have shaken the credibility of their story. Once on the train, Olivier dug into her bag and produced her wedding band. She slid it onto her finger and took his hand, silently.

Miles stared out the train window without speaking for most of his journey. It had been a long time, too long, since he had been home. Unlike Olivier, he wanted to go home, he missed his family, but still fears whispered traitorously in his ear. He had missed _so much._

Arriving in East City, Miles took charge, guiding Olivier through the crowded streets and toward a dressmaker’s shop. At the door, she planted her feet.

“Why are we _here_ , Miles?” She regarded the dresses on the dummies in the window with disdain.

“Because,” He pinched the expensive fabric of her shirt sleeve, “where we’re going, clothes like this will get you mugged.” He, himself, had opted for civilian clothing that had travelled to and from Briggs with him. Respectable, but well worn.

Olivier eyed him, suspiciously. “I don’t do dresses.”

“You might not, but I’m thinking Mira does.” He told her, cheekily taking advantage of her compartmentalization. With an irritable huff, she stomped in the door. “Come on,” he coaxed when she looked around the shop, blankly.

“I’ve never shopped for premade clothes before.” Miles stared, in spite of himself. He had never had custom clothes before she’d given them to him, but he was still surprised to consider that was all she had ever owned.

“I’d recommend not saying that in front of my family,” he managed after a minute. “Alright, come look at the racks; see if there’s anything you like.” He led her around the shop, holding up various garments all of which were dismissed with a quick shake of her head.

“Tough customer, huh?” A shop girl appeared, looking Olivier up and down. “I’m thinking something from over here.” She led them to a rack of more business-like dresses. “How about this?” She held up a knee-length black dress with a smart collar and short sleeves. “All the business ladies are wearing them. Or,” she held up a deep green dress with a gently flared skirt, and elbow-length sleeves “something like this?”

Olivier looked from one dress to the other, not _as_ disgusted as she had been by Miles’ choices.

“Just try them.” He nudged her gently. Olivier nodded, and the shop girl led her to a dressing room.

“You can wait here, Mister.” She indicated a worn wooden chair. “Let me know if you need any help, Ma’am.”

Miles perched on the chair and listened to the sounds of Olivier struggling with the dresses behind the curtain. “What-? Ouch! Stupid thing!” He smirked to himself, and waited. At last, Olivier stomped out in the green dress.

“You look lovely.” He told her, genuinely.

“Whatever.” Olivier scowled. “The buttons on the other one got stuck in my hair.”

“Excellent choice, Ma’am.” The shop girl reappeared, wisely ignoring Olivier’s difficulty with the other dress. “Would you like to have it bagged up, or wear it out?”

“Wear it out.” Miles replied for her; he didn’t think he’d be able to persuade her to put the dress back on if she took it off.

“Very well.”

Miles payed for the dress while Olivier shoved her clothes into her bag. They set off again, hand in hand, and he enjoyed the simplicity of roaming the streets with his wife. Though, Olivier was still bitter about the dress, and kept squeezing his fingers like she wanted to break them.

-

As excited as he was to introduce her to his family, Miles was also very nervous. Especially after seeing the extravagant manor she had grown up in, the ramshackle house his family shared with it’s dead dirt yard and leaning fence seemed rather inadequate. On the other hand, more than anything else, Olivier needed the kind of pure, old-fashioned, love he knew his family would shower on her. He just hoped it wouldn’t be too overwhelming for her.

“Are you ready?” He asked, her at the gate to his family’s yard. Olivier studied the rickety house, with it’s peeling paint, and that one shutter that they never could get to hang right. At least it was an improvement from some of the areas they'd walked through to get there. She nodded. “Alright, then.” He marched up to the front door, and rapped on it sharply. It flew open, immediately.

“Miles!” Mother beamed, tears glistening in her eyes. He hadn’t been home since the war and no letters, no phone calls, could compare to seeing her son, alive and well, for the first time in years. She threw her arms around him. “Oh, I missed you so much!”

“I missed you, too!” He embraced her tightly. He stepped back and took Olivier’s arm, gently. “This is Mira.” Mother regarded Olivier for a minute. It had been jarring, he knew, to one day be informed he had married a woman he had never mentioned before, and who she had certainly never _met. Miles held his breath, without even meaning to._

__

__

Her face cracked into a warm smile. “Mira, dear! How good to meet you at last!” She pulled Olivier into a tight embrace. Olivier cautiously put her arms around her mother-in-law, giving her an awkward pat on the back. Miles gave her an encouraging smile behind his mother’s back.

“Miles is home?” Trista, his littlest sister appeared behind her mother. “Miles!” She threw herself at him and he lifted off her feet, ignoring her protests, and spun her around. Setting her down, he blinked at the realization she was a young woman now, and not the little girl he’d left behind.

“Come in, dears. The whole family is waiting!” Miles’ mother ushered them in. The whole family, was not an understatement. Miles had expected a few of his siblings to make it home on short-notice, but they were all there with spouses and children of their own. There was a flurry of hugs and exclamations, and there were very few dry eyes. Olivier stood off to the side and watched them all.

“Everyone, meet Mira!” He took Olivier’s hand and pulled her closer. “Mira, love, this is Elle and Donnie.” He indicated his twin, who had a truly impressive baby bump, and her husband. With a grin, he introduced each sibling in turn; Ian and his wife Lena, Celia, James, Rosie, and Trista. They were all so old now, he almost couldn’t believe it. How much had he missed? “This is Grandmother.” He kissed the forehead of his father’s mother. “And Grandma.” He kissed his mother’s mother’s hand, with rather less warmth.

“Nice to meet you all.” Olivier told the room, at large. Miles’ family was regarding her, curiously. Some, like his mother were warming immediately. Others, like Elle, were taking the secrecy more personally.

“What’s life like in Briggs?” Rosie asked, breaking the silence that had fallen. Olivier opened her mouth to answer, and Miles trod gently on her foot. Mira at least, supposedly, lived in North City, not at the Fort.

“Very cold.” He quipped at his sister. Laughter echoed in the cramped living room. His eyes landed on the baby Ian was holding. “Is this my new niece?” He stepped forward, eagerly.

“Yup!” Ian beamed proudly. “Meet our little Anelise!”

“She’s beautiful.” Miles breathed. “May I?” He reached out tentatively, and Ian gently settled the infant in his arms. “Hello, Anelise,” he murmured. “You have beautiful eyes.” Anelise looked up at him and then gave a startled wail. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He moved to hand her back.

“I think it’s these glasses, brother.” Ian reached up and pulled them off. Anelise quieted, and Miles rocked her gently.

“Mira, come see.” He turned to Olivier who was looking at the baby the same way new recruits looked at live grenades.

“It’s, er, she’s really...small.” She muttered, peering into his arms.

“I think the word you want is precious.” Miles corrected, and began making cooing noises at his niece. Olivier arched her eyebrows at him.

“Aaw, you’re so sweet.” James teased.

“Watch it, squirt.” Miles fired back, good-naturedly. “Or I’ll have to come over there.” He mimed a punching motion with his free hand.

“Careful!” Ian lurched like he expected Miles to throw Anelise.

“Relax!” Lena and Elle told him, together.

“Is it ready, Mother?” Trista stage-whispered to her mother. The room went quiet, though the nieces and nephews giggled, and the family exchanged excited smiles.

“Is what ready?” Miles asked suspiciously, as he reluctantly handed his niece back to her father.

“Come and see.” Mother’s eyes twinkled warmly as she led them into the dining room. Miles laughed when he saw what was inside.

“Mother, you shouldn’t have!”

The room was decorated in paper flowers, and large banner read “Welcome Home, Miles and Mira”. There was a crisp, white, cake on the back counter with a flower crown on either side.

“Well, we couldn’t come to your wedding, so we brought a little wedding to you.” Mother beamed at them.

Trista and Rosie darted in and brought the flower crowns over. Still chuckling, Miles bowed his head and let Rosie plant his crown there. Olivier’s face was frozen, and Miles was afraid she would knock Trista over rather than allow herself to be crowned. He squeezed her hand, gently, and with a barely perceptible grimace she bowed her head. The dining room was an even tighter fit than the living room, but the family squeezed in. Olivier looked like she would snap into Ice Queen mode and cut them all down at any second, so Miles slipped his arms around her, pinning her arms to her sides, and rested his chin on her head. His family, oblivious to the danger they were in, giggled at them.

Elle waggled her brows, mockingly, at her brother and then began to sing. The rest of his family joined in, a traditional Ishvalan wedding song filled the room. They clapped their hands and stamped their feet in time to the music. The house shook, and Miles tightened his hold on Olivier who was, understandably, more than a little unsure.

Miles’ mother distributed slices of cake. They made their way to sit at the table and Olivier pointed out the obvious flaw.

“How are we all supposed to fit?”

“We double-up.” Elle told her simply, already dividing her three children amongst their aunts. “You want a kiddo on your lap, or you do want to be on a lap?”

“I beg _your pardon?_ ” Olivier’s affronted face would have intimidated anyone else, but Elle grinned at her.

“Ooh, make her sit on Miles’ lap!” Lena was settling herself comfortably on Ian’s lap, arms around Anelise.

“Ooh, yes!” Several others agreed, snickering.

With a mischievous grin, Miles sat down and patted his lap. Olivier sneered at him, and sat down forcefully. If they were back at Briggs, Miles knew she would have made him be a human bench for his impertinence, but they weren’t, so he laughed along with everyone else.

“[She’s an arrogant one.]” Elle commented to Miles, oblivious to the fact Olivier could understand her.

Olivier took a bite of cake, face fixed in a neutral expression.

“[Elle,]” he warned, “[that’s unkind.]” Olivier sipped the cup of coffee she’d been given with her cake, face still blank.

“[So’s bringing home some Northern floozie-]”

“Elle!” Mother interjected. “You two can practice your Ishvalan some other time, I know no one else speaks it quite as well. In the meantime, please keep things in Amestrian. So everyone can understand.” She glanced pointedly at Olivier who dabbed a napkin at the flakes of frosting on her lips. Miles shifted, uncomfortably, knowing Olivier wouldn’t have bought the cover up, even if she hadn’t spoken Ishvalan.

“[Not to worry, ma’am." Olivier set her napkin down and met Elle’s eyes defiantly. "[I understand perfectly.]”

Elle reddened. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-”

“As I said, I understand perfectly.” An awkward silence fell, and Miles wondered if he had made a colossal mistake in bringing Olivier home. “I realize, from your point of view, this was quite sudden. I would be concerned if my brother, had made such a decision so swiftly.” Miles was surprised that Olivier was the one trying to fix the situation. “Of course, my brother is an idiot. Something, I assure you, yours is not.” Olivier had not broken eye contact with Elle. “If you would like for me to leave, I will.” She moved to rise.

“No! Don’t!” Elle rubbed the back of her neck. “I was being hasty, Miles is the level-headed one, not me. If he loves you, then, that really is good enough for me.” She gave Olivier an apologetic grin, which was not returned. “Sorry, Mira.”

“I accept your apology.” Olivier nodded stiffly. She hesitated, and then spoke again. “Your brother does the same thing when he’s uncomfortable.” She indicated the hand still on the back of Elle’s neck.

“I do not!” Miles protested, lowering his own hand quickly.

“Yes, you do.” Celia adjusted her glasses primly. “It’s a noted coping technique, about which the great scholar-”

“Shh.” James slapped a hand over her mouth. “No one cares.”

“I care.” Her voice was muffled by the hand over her mouth.

“No one normal, then.” James rolled his eyes and turned to Olivier, “Sorry about her, she reads the dictionary for fun.”

“James, let go of your sister.” Mother scolded, throwing her hands in the air. “And to think you’re ‘adults’, now! Teh!”

“Well, some things never change.” Miles chuckled.

“There’s nothing wrong with the pursuit of knowledge.” Olivier regarded Celia in a way that, for her, was kind. “I once read the entire _Alchemical Encyclopedia_ which is twenty volumes, just to see what I could learn. I learned that I don’t like alchemy.” Miles was as surprised as anyone, he knew Olivier craved knowledge, but he rarely saw her read.

Celia smiled gratefully and kicked her brother under the table.

“Ow!” Ian jumped. “What was that for, Ce?”

“Sorry, wrong brother.”

“Celia!” Trista yanked her legs back. “Just kick him later!” The conversation devolved into a scuffle. The mothers all excused themselves to the kitchen (taking little ones with them) and Miles pulled Olivier out of the line of fire. It wasn’t that he was worried she would get kicked, or slapped, as the case might have been, but he was rather afraid of how she might escalate the situation.

“Ha!” Celia dealt James a swift kick in the rear. “‘Pride cometh before the fall,’ as was once said-”

“Exactly!” James grabbed a half-eaten slice of cake.

“Woah!” Miles jumped in, even though he was _pretty sure_ they wouldn't really start food fight. “Break it up, break it up. You’re all acting like children!” His siblings turned to him, eyes twinkling. “At least take it outside.” He wasn’t surprised when they grabbed hold of _him_ and dragged him out into the back yard.

“Alright, let’s spar.” His sisters made a semi-circle around themas they took up fighting stances.

“Let’s go, James!” Ian roared from the doorway. “Younger brothers represent!”

Miles was neither surprised nor offended when his siblings started cheering for James. Miles, as the oldest, and only soldier in the family, was pretty much guaranteed to win the playful match. What _did_ offend him was Olivier, leaning on the wall of the house, arms crossed, began to advise James.

“Hands up, James.” She nodded. “Duck now. Good. He doesn’t defend his left side very well.”

“Who’s side are you on, love?” Miles protested. He hadn’t realized how sore he still was, and James was tiring him out more than he cared to admit.

“I just thought I’d level the playing field a little.” Her smirk told him it was punishment for laughing at her. Ian was watching her, thoughtfully, but he turned and went back into the house when his wife called for him.

In a matter of minutes Miles had his brother flat on his back in the dirt. James slapped the ground, and Miles let him up, ruffling his hair good-naturedly.

“Since you seem to know so much, show us what you’ve got!” James turned to Olivier with a sly grin.

“James!” Miles chastised, “you can’t fight a lady.” This was, of course, the wrong thing to say and Olivier stiffened.

“I can take him.” She pushed herself off the wall and marched toward the center of the “ring”.

“It’s not you I’m worried about.” Miles admitted.

“Hey, I think I can take on a girl!” James’ hotheadedness and big mouth were always getting him in trouble.

“You think so, runt?”

James had nearly a foot on her and frowned at the characterization. “Yeah, I do.”

Miles sighed. “Come on you, two. You’re both adults.”

“Meaning there’s nothing you can do to stop us.” Olivier grinned, and kicked off the impractical shoes she had borrowed from Catherine, without Catherine’s knowledge.

Miles backed up. “Last chance to back out, Jamie boy. It’s your funeral.”

“Go Mira!” The Miles sisters cheered.

Olivier planted her feet, and raised her hands. James mimicked her stance, and Ian who had reappeared holding Anelise gave them a countdown. “Three! Two! Go!” Miles put his head in his hands, nervously.

James threw a sloppy punch and Olivier blocked it with one swift motion. She resumed her stance, and Miles was relieved to see she wasn’t planning on pummeling his little brother. Again and again, she blocked with swift, merciless, motions and withdrew. They didn’t call her the Northern Wall of Briggs for nothing, Miles mused watching his brother grow increasingly frustrated.

“Come on Mira, throw me a bone.” James grunted when she sent him spinning into a nearby bush.

“If you insist.” Olivier threw her first, and only, blow of the fight, a swift kick straight in the stomach. James dropped to the ground, tapping out with a loud groan. Olivier leaned down to hiss in his ear. “Think twice before you throw down the gauntlet next time, boy.” She spun on her heel and marched back up to the house.

“ _Dang,_ Mira.” Ian rocked Anelise. “Where’d you learn that?”

“What? Oh, I took martial arts and fencing as a child.”

“Not very ladylike.” He grinned at her. “But on the other hand, unlike pretty boy here,” he indicated Miles “you kept your flower crown on the whole time.”

Scowling, Miles retrieved his dusty crown and dropped it on Ian’s head. “Now you’re the pretty one.”

“Nope. With that ponytail you’re definitely the prettiest of them all.” Ian teased.

“Hey!” Rosie protested. “I’m definitely prettier than Miles!”

“Barely.” Trista teased, cheekily. It was an undeniable fact that Rosie was the family beauty.

Miles shook his head as the argument carried on playfully. Before long, most of the rest of the family was outside, giving their grandmothers an opportunity to go rest. Miles slipped back in and found Mother in her old favorite rocking chair, with an unfinished patchwork quilt.

“Here,” he took the edge of the quilt, and perched on a footstool. “Let me help.”

“Oh, no, dear. Go have fun.” Mother shook her her head at him, gently trying to take the quilt back. “You needn’t sit here with me.”

“I want to, Mother.” He grabbed a handful of pins from her basket and set to work picking scraps and pinning them on.

She smiled fondly at him. “Oh, alright. You’ve always been good at this sort of thing.”

He chuckled. “Well, with Elle running around causing trouble someone had to help you out.”

She laughed. “Elle always has been a wild one, hasn’t she?” She smoothed her sewing, thoughtfully. “You’ve always worried too much, dearheart. Why’s that?”

“I-” he faltered. “I suppose it’s just my nature.”

“Mmmh.” She frowned and unpicked a few stitches. They worked in silence for a few minutes.

“Mother?”

“Hmm?”

“When I was little,” he cleared his throat, “I know Grandfather wanted me to live in Ishval with him. Father could have passed as Amestrian, if he really wanted and-”

“Go on.” Mother prompted, when he hesitated.

“Did you ever regret not sending me away?”

_“Never.”_

“Why not? You could have lived somewhere nicer, Father could have had better work. Maybe if he hadn’t worked in a factory, he wouldn’t have gotten so sick, and then-”

“Hush.” Mother set aside the quilt and rose, taking his face in her hands. “You are my son. From the moment I heard your little heartbeat and knew you existed, I have loved you. Every sacrifice your father and I made for you, and for your siblings, we made because we loved you.” She kissed the top of his head. “If I could go back in time, I would do it all again.”

“Thank you.” Miles whispered around the lump growing in his throat, he slumped forward, resting his head against her. A weight he had been carrying for so long he almost didn’t remember it slid off his shoulders. _“Thank you.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoyed this fun family-oriented chapter, after all the darkness!
> 
> Comments are like chocolate you can read. :) (aka, please let me know what you think!)


	26. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray for another chapter?
> 
> As before the square brackets [do these have a better name?] indicate a character is speaking in Ishvalan.

“I don’t suppose someone wants to run on down to the market and get me a few things?” Mother interrupted the game of capture the flag that had somehow begun (they claimed it was to humor the little ones), holding a basket and shopping list.

“We’ll go.” Miles volunteered, taking the basket. Olivier glanced at him, but didn’t protest.

“Me too!” Ever childlike, Trista jumped up and down excitedly, setting off a chain reaction from the littles who immediately decided they _had_ to go.

“I’ll help!” Rosie grabbed the list, and began organizing the children into groups with supervisory adults. Miles felt a bit like a mother hen as he set off, arm in arm with Olivier for the market. All of his unmarried siblings along with Ian and Donnie, trailed after chattering happily with their corresponding niece and nephew responsibilities. Apparently, they would have been underfoot in the small kitchen.

“Did you forget your shoes?” Halfway to the market Miles glanced down at Olivier and saw she was still barefoot.

“They pinched.” She held her head high, every inch as confident in her dress and bare feet as she she was in her uniform.

The farmer’s market was a bustling maze of tents and stands. Rosie, still holding the list, divided her siblings up into groups and directed them to the appropriate stalls at which to purchase their ingredients.

Miles and Olivier set off in pursuit of a dozen ripe tomatoes, a melon, and a bushel of potatoes. “Hello, boy.” Miles paused to pet a black and white dog who was tied outside a tent. He checked the collar. “Black Hayate, huh?” The dog panted at him, happily.

“Sorry about him, the vendor doesn’t allow-Major Miles!”

“How inconsiderate of him.” Olivier quipped before apparently realizing the gravity of the situation and ducking behind a sign.

“General Armstrong?” Riza Hawkeye inquired cautiously, regarding the sparkles floating above the sign.

“No!” Miles spoke a little too quickly, spotting Donnie and Ian at a nearby booth, where they appeared to be quibbling about ears of corn. “I’m here visiting my family. How are you, Lieutenant Hawkeye?”

“Quite well, thank you. Yourself?” She smiled politely, one eye still on the apparently sparkling sign.

“Miles, who’s your friend?” Ian had apparently given up on the corn and left Donnie to sort it out.

“This is Second Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye.” Miles introduced. “This is my brother, Ian.”

“The one with the baby?” She asked, kindly. “How is she?”

“Doing great, thanks.” He eyed Miles, suspiciously. “How-?”

“We were doing joint North-East training when you called.” Miles explained.

“Cool.” He beamed good-naturedly. “Where did you lose Mira at?”

“Mira?” Hawkeye inquired, brows rising slightly.

“His wife.” Ian looked around for her. “About yay tall, blonde hair down to here.” He indicated the various descriptors with his hands. Miles tried to stand on his foot, surreptitiously. “Gorgeous, but kinda mean-looking, if we’re being honest.”

Hawkeye’s lips twitched. “I think I saw someone matching that description over there.” She inclined her head in the general direction of the sign Olivier was crouching behind. “If you’ll forgive me, I need to be off.” She loosed Hayate’s leash and started away.

“It was good to see you, Lieutenant.” Miles stepped after her, nervously.

“You as well, Major. Please enjoy the rest of your family time, such _personal_ days are rare in the military.” She smiled at him. “I’ll be sure not to tell Colonel Mustang you’re here or he might try to snatch you up for duty.” Miles nodded gratefully and turned back to hunt for tomatoes.

\---

Lunch wasn’t any less crowded than the cake eating had been. Olivier sat on Miles’ lap once more and threatened under her breath to run him through if he told anyone. She repeatedly stole food off his plate, her infamous appetite rearing it’s head.

“You’re not very tall.” Elle’s oldest child, Marta, observed as Olivier stretched for a roll that was almost out of reach.

“Well, neither are you.” Olivier retorted, scowling at the girl.

“That’s 'cause I’m a kid. You’re a grown-up.”

Olivier’s face twitched dangerously. “That’s right, kid. You know what that means? You should respect your elders.”

“Why?” Marta's tone was innocent enough, but she was smirking that way children do when they know they're getting on someone's nerves.

“Don’t mind her,” Donnie reached over his daughter’s head for another ladle full of soup. “She’s in that obstinate phase.”

“Who, Marta or Mira?” Grandmother asked, cheekily. “Hey, kiddo, you’re the one who just said to respect your elders.” She added, laughing at Olivier’s enraged face.

“Your family is nuts.” Olivier hissed in in Miles’ ear, leaning so close her long blond hair obscured his face.

“You’re one to talk.” He muttered back.

“Whispering’s rude.” Marta pointed out, helpfully.

“Why, you little-”

“Easy, tiger.” Miles grabbed her hand as she reached for her sword, which was, thankfully, still in Central.

"Ah," Grandmother smirked, "Mira never outgrew the obstinate phase, hmm?"

-

Somehow or other, they made it through lunch without bloodshed. The children were chased outside while the adults sipped coffee and chatted.

“Teh,” Elle sighed into her mug. “Why can’t anyone in this family have a normal wedding?”

Mother laughed lightly and looked ready to reply, but Trista beat her to it. “What was wrong with Ian and Lena’s wedding?” She frowned. “I remember it being nice.”

“Oh,” Elle blushed a little and cleared her throat. “Well, the _wedding_ was nice.”

“Thanks.” Lena rolled her eyes.

"You know what I mean, dear." Elle beamed. "The wedding was lovely, truly." 

“What wasn’t, then?” Ian huffed.

“Even I know this one.” Miles teased, laughing at the irritated look Ian gave him in response.

“What?” Rosie arched dark brows and stared around the table. “I know it was a fast wedding, but what am I missing?”

“Teh,” Lena rubbed her forehead. “Go on, I don’t mind.”

“You don’t.” Ian muttered, ducking his head and blushing. Miles watched him for a minute, momentarily struck by how different they were from each other; Ian was as blatantly Amestrian in appearance as Miles was Ishvalan. As a child Miles had often compared himself to his younger brother wondering if he would have been as well-liked if he’d had his brother’s fair, freckled, complexion, dark hair, and sparkling brown eyes.

Rosie cleared her throat. “Well, go on, Flor. Tell us what ‘even’ you know.”

Miles gave her a dark look at the nickname and began his tale. “Second summer home from the Academy, I was pretty used to waking up early so I came downstairs to make breakfast; Mother was still working and everyone else was sleeping-"

_Miles padded through the kitchen, barefeet almost soundless. He started at a rustling noise in the living room and grabbed the nearest thing on hand that might be useful as a weapon, which turned out to be a frying pan. Stepping through the door, frying pan extended, he found himself face-to-face with a young woman._

_“Who are you?!” Their confusion only grew when they both asked the same question._

_Miles peered closer. “Lena Donati?”_

_She frowned. “Yes, how did you-?”_

_He lowered the pan. “You were in my younger brother’s class at school.”_

_“Ian’s your brother?”_

“Why do you sound so surprised?” It was his turn to frown.

_“You’re scoperto-” she trailed off. “No, wait that does make sense. That would make you Miles, yes?”_

He nodded, still bewildered. “Why are you here?”

_“Oh, uh, Ian-” she went scarlet when Miles’ face showed plainly what he thought she meant. “No! Ah, he gave me a key. I sleep on the sofa sometimes, other nights at other friends’.” She shifted. “Your parents know I’m here.”_

_“Oh.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly very uncomfortable. “Um, I was about to make breakfast. Would you like some? Maybe some coffee?”_

_“I don’t want to put you out-”_

_He waved a hand at her, “Eh, don’t worry about it.”_

_They fell into a stilted conversation while Miles cooked. The smell of coffee brought Father, Ian, and Elle into the kitchen, and their conversation turned to why Lena was without a place to live to begin with._

_“Well, my aunt and uncle raised me," she explained, "but they have six of their own, so there just isn’t room anymore. I’m trying to go school, to be a nurse, but it’s expensive. And I do have to live somewhere.”_

_“I still can’t believe they would just put you out like that!” Elle huffed, indignantly, wrapping an arm around Lena’s thin shoulders. “You poor thing! What are you going to do now?”_

_“I haven’t figured that out, yet.”_

_“Er,” Ian spoke for the first time that morning, staring into his untouched mug of coffee. “I’ve been thinking, um-” He cleared his throat. “I, er, well, I-”_

_“What is it?”_

_“I, well, you know, I’m-” he mumbled, garnering several sets of raised brows in response, “I have that new job at the hotel downtown, and I get an apartment there rent-free.” He was growing redder by the minute. “You could, you know, if you wanted-”_

_“What are you getting at?” Lena frowned at him confused and a bit embarrassed._

_“I’m, uh-”_

Father, alone, seemed to grasp what Ian was getting at. He crossed the kitchen and gripped his shoulder firmly.

_“Well, Lena, you could-” Father coughed lightly, and without warning tugged Ian’s chair out from under him, using the hand on his shoulder to drive him onto one knee. “M-marry me?” Ian practically squeaked. Lena stared. Miles and Elle exchanged bewildered looks. “We could live at the hotel and you could go to school, and-”_

_“Oh, alright.”_

_“That’s it? You’re saying yes?”_

_“Yes.”_

_Ian jumped to his feet and threw his arms around her. “You won’t regret it, I promise! I’ll get you a ring as soon as I can!”_

_“Er, alright.”_

“I-Ian!” Rosie laughed so hard she actually toppled out of her chair. “You’re such a dork!”

Trista sighed wistfully. "I think it sounds romantic, and you two were only _my_ age."

"Don't go getting ideas," Ian warned, sharply. "It wasn't easy."

“You were right, though.” Lena smiled fondly at her husband. “I don’t regret it.”

Collective cooing was heard round the table. Olivier leaned into Miles and whispered, “I stand by what I said; your family is insane.”

Miles patted her shoulder in response. “So’s yours, dearheart.” He barely noticed the look she gave him at the nickname.

-

After the coffee break Miles helped his brothers clean up, keeping one eye on Olivier the whole time.

“Mira, be a dear and hold her, would you?” Lena passed Anelise off to step away for a minute. Miles, elbow-deep in a sudsy dish sink, smiled at Olivier’s wide eyes.

“Want one of your own?” Ian nudged him.

“I-”

“Miles!” Olivier sounded almost panicked, and he turned to her immediately, grabbing a hand towel off the oven door. “Quick, take it.”

“Take what?”

“The baby. Quick. Before I drop it.”

He dried his hands and slipped Anelise from her arms. “You would have been fine. You carry heavier things all the time.”

“I dropped a teapot the other day, and that’s lighter.” Olivier crossed her arms, defiantly.

“I’m fairly sure you threw that, love.” He rocked Anelise, gently. “Why don’t you try again? You can sit down if you like.”

“No.”

“Are you sure? She’s really sweet-”

“Shut up, Miles. I said no.” Olivier turned on her heel and marched off.

“She’s got you whipped.” James muttered from behind the baking tray he was scouring. Miles shifted Anelise and snapped the dishtowel at him.

\---

What seemed a blink of the eye to Miles, and an eternity to Olivier, later they were saying their goodbyes, and preparing to catch the last train of the day. There were hugs and kisses, and a few playful jabs all round.

“Hey, brother.” Ian caught Miles’ arm while Olivier was suffering through hugs from all their sisters. “I’m really glad you came. That you got to meet Anelise.” His voice was somber, and his face tired.

“You’re still leaving.” Miles felt a lump in his throat. “I had hoped you still being here meant-”

“We’re just waiting for fall, when the desert might be cooler.” Ian shook his head. “Someone smashed our windows the other week, and we’ve been getting threats. Lena doesn’t dare take Anelise out alone. We’re hoping Xing will be more forgiving.”

Miles embraced his brother heavily. “Will we see each other again?”

“If Ishvala allows it.” They stepped back, both fighting tears, though they would never admit it to each other.

“I spoke to General Armstrong about the letters, she arranged to have them rerouted directly to Briggs. You still should have discretion, but they will at least make it to me, now.”

Ian nodded.

Olivier approached. “We have to go or we’ll miss our train.” She seemed to realize what was happening, because she touched Miles’ arm lightly, a gentle comforting gesture. She allowed herself to be embraced by Ian as Miles grabbed her bag.

“[Goodbye, General. Thank you, and take good care of my brother.]” Ian whispered just loud enough for Miles and Olivier to catch, but no one else. He gave them both a wry smirk when they blinked just a little too fast, indicating their surprise.

Miles’ family followed them all the way down the grungy little lane and waved until they were out of sight.

They rode back to Central quietly. Olivier vanished, briefly, and reappeared in her blouse and trousers. As the train pulled into Central City Station, she pulled off her wedding ring and returned it, safely, to her bag. They were themselves again, Miles thought wryly, still caught somewhere between a comforting lie and a dangerous truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Miles' family. Yeah.
> 
> I wanted to flesh out how Miles could have a contrasting sibling, who appears very Amestrian and can't relate to Miles' struggles as much, in spite of having the same genetics/family/background. (Hopefully, it wasn't too crazy to include Ian proposing in a flashback. I thought he was hilariously awkward.) 
> 
> A note: "scoperto" is Italian and can mean a variety of things including red, and is being used as slang for red-eyed/Ishvalan (in my head, there is a heavy Auregean influence in the area). It can also mean, "bare", "uncovered", or "discovered", which plays into why I picked it--red eyes, afterall, are **the** definitive mark of an Ishvalan--and there's an element of vulnerability in people knowing that he has red eyes. /pointlessoverthinking, I know 
> 
> As always, I would love your input! :)


	27. Society

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!

Miles felt, somehow, he should have known that preparations for a ball would take all day. He was, regardless, surprised when, after an early breakfast, Olivier was swept up with her sisters and cloistered in Catherine’s rooms. He wandered up to the library aimlessly, and spent the day reading.

When he went to get dressed, he opened the garment bag that Olivier had told him was for the ball and was absolutely flummoxed. A few of the items within, a stiff shirt, black trousers, and matching coat, he understood. The others, a thick red belt of sorts, a kind of short oddly-shaped tie, and a silk flower on a pin, were completely unknown to him. Uncertainly, he donned the things he understood and double-checked his boots were buffed to shining perfection.

Miles collected the odd pieces and debated. Olivier, having purchased them, would know what they were, but she was still preparing with the rest of the Armstrong sisters. She would, certainly, have welcomed an interruption, but he doubted the other women would have. After a moment, his answer came to him and he set off, hoping he wouldn’t run into any of the forty or-so other house-guests on his way.

He rapped sharply on the door, and waited.

“Major Miles!” Alex beamed at him, already fully dressed. “What brings you to my room?” He regarded the clothes Miles was still clutching and nodded knowingly. “Come on in.”

Miles stepped into his bedroom and looked around, a bit curious. Where an obvious effort had been made to pinkify Olivier in her childhood, Alex’s room was all cream walls and mahogany furniture and, surprisingly, lush green plants.

“The art of impeccable dressing has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!” Alex boomed at him, moving as though to rip off his shirt, and then thinking better of it. “Here, take off your jacket.” Miles complied and Alex wrapped the belt around him, cinching it snugly. “Cummerbunds are a bit strange if you’re not used to them.”

“Cucumbers?” Miles queried disbelievingly, wondering how the vegetable had made it’s way into the conversation.

Alex laughed heartily. “Major, your humor is most delightful!” He helped Miles slip back into his jacket and held up the tie-like item. “Bow-ties are all the rage, latest fashion and all.” He tied it on, frowning a bit with the effort.

He grabbed the silk flower and regarded it disdainfully. “A silk boutonniere?” His mustache twitched, offended. “A noble effort, my good man, but no!” He tossed the silk flower on the floor.

Miles was, temporarily, relieved.

“I have a much more suitable rose growing on my balcony.” Alex marched across the room, and plucked a pair of sheers from a nearby table. He stepped out through glass doors and reappeared clutching a large red rose. “The art of horticultural cultivation has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!”

He pinned the rose to Miles’ lapel. Miles glanced at it, bemused, it seemed rather feminine, but the other Major had an even larger pink rose pinned on his chest.

Miles followed Alex down to the family ballroom. It was a vast room, with shining marble floors and a vaulted ceiling that soared an impressive three floors. The far wall was all glass, and several doors led out onto terraces and into the gardens. Though not yet lit, there were candles everywhere. The centerpiece of the room, however, was a wide, sweeping staircase, which rose and split into two, rejoining on a small balcony, about where the second floor would be. The balcony was covered in the largest flowers Miles had ever seen.

With no earthly idea what to do, Miles hung by Alex’s side as uniformed staff lit candles, and carted in trays of food and champagne. Olivier’s parents and other relatives joined them, and then guests began to gradually filter in. Miles’ stomach rumbled and he was relieved when he was offered hors d'oeuvre, taking whatever he saw Alex take. The ballroom filled, and Miles began to wonder where the Armstrong sisters were at. They were, decidedly, late to their own ball.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” Phillip cleared his throat loudly. Everyone turned eagerly to the stairs, where he was standing. “Today, my youngest daughter, Miss Catherine, is making her first appearance in society. As is traditional, please join me in welcoming her preceding sisters.” Miles frowned, thoroughly confused. “First, my eldest, Miss Olivier!”

Looking a bit like she had been shoved, Olivier appeared on one side of the split staircase. She started down the stairs, back straight, arms at attention, eyes straight ahead. There was a mix of reactions amongst the guests; Olivier was a bit infamous amongst the socialites, though she hadn’t appeared, formally, in society since, well, ever. Miles heard excited whispering mixed with less-pleasant murmurs.

She had, it seemed, decided to wear the outfit the tailor had made for her. It was a rich burgundy coat, of the lightest silk, with a high Xingese collar, and long slit sleeves. The coat stopped just above her knees, and she was wearing white trousers. Her sword was around her waist. To Miles’ absolute surprise, she was wearing soft dancing slippers in a matching burgundy, rather than the boots he had expected her to stubbornly wear. While her hair was still covering the right side of her face, someone, presumably Amue, had woven a braid into the left side and tucked several bejeweled flower clips into it. She finished her descent of the stairs, and stood off to the side, still holding herself as though she were at a military ceremony.

“Miss Amue!” Amue emerged from the other side and flounced down the stairs, ringlets bouncing with every step. She wore a ruffled pink ballgown, with a full lace-covered skirt. She stopped across from Olivier and beamed around the room.

“Miss Strongine!” Strongine had to have been the one who shoved Olivier because she came through the same door as her oldest sister. Her gown was purple, but much the same as Amue’s.

“And, for the first time, I am pleased to introduce Miss Catherine Elle Armstrong!” Catherine stepped out, looking nervous. She was, by far, the most graceful of her sisters as she descended. She was wearing a sparkling, periwinkle, gown and waved tentatively. The guests in the room practically rushed to greet her, thrilled.

In the chaos, Olivier vanished. “There you are, Major.” She pushed past a woman in a green gown and moved toward him, pulling the clips from her braid and tossing them onto the floor as she went. She looked him up and down, taking in the tuxedo. “You look sharp.” Her slight smile showed it was more of a compliment than it sounded.

“Thank you, Sir.” He inclined his head. A woman in heels tripped over one of the discarded hair clips and yelped. “You look,” he paused, considering his place as adjutant, “quite nice.” He concluded, hoping that was safe to say.

“I was thinking, ‘dazzling’.” A familiar voice snickered behind Miles. “How are you, my lovely Oli?”

Miles turned to find himself face to face with Roy Mustang. His brain whirred, was the nickname a mere coincidence, or something far stranger, he wondered.

“Mustang.” Olivier gritted her teeth. “Who let you in here?”

“Your butler, who else?” Mustang beamed at her.

“I’ll have that imbecile sacked.” She threatened, fuming. “He’s supposed to keep out the riff-raff.”

“Well, I have an invitation.” He waved it at Olivier. “So, he was doing his job.”

“Forged, I’m sure.” Olivier sneered. “Do you want a round two, Royboy?”

“Of the fountain incident? I’m considering it.” He flashed her a charming smile. “Oh, by the by, have you seen my date?” He turned and indicated none other than Vanessa, from Madame Christmas’ Bar.

Miles jaw dropped for a second, but he popped it shut before either senior officer noticed. He had been right about the nickname, then, but what did that make Roy? He didn’t know.

“You brought your sister.” Olivier snorted. “Classy.”

“She’s not really my sister, Oli.” Mustang grinned. “But she did so want to come. I think she was hoping to see a repeat of either the fork or the fountain incident.” He flashed Olivier his most dazzling smile, yet. “I’m sure she’d settle for a repeat of the Great Waltz, though. Fancy a dance?”

“Never.”

“But you wore your dancing shoes.” Mustang had also noticed her odd footwear.

“Catherine hid all my other shoes.” Olivier’s forehead vein was making an appearance. “Under one of the many pianos in the house.”

Mustang snickered.

“Tch!” Olivier stormed away. They didn’t make it far, though, before they were stopped.

“Livvie!” Catherine bounded up. “You haven’t danced yet! You need to!”

“I have no such need.” Olivier turned away, face curling in a sneer. “Besides, it’s been all of five minutes.”

“Puh-lease.” Catherine grabbed her arm, making huge, sad, eyes at her sister. “I really want you to!”

“I can’t dance; I have no partner.”

“Oh, Livvie, darling” a red-haired woman interjected, sidling up to them, “you can have one of mine! Heaven knows, you won’t find one on your own.” She tittered, and held up a gloved hand. “Oh, sorry, that was rather blunt of me, wasn’t it?”

“I really _will_ fire that butler.” Olivier snarled. “I should have known you would be here.”

“Your mother invited me personally.” She laughed again, and slid an arm around Olivier’s shoulder. “You know,” she tugged the braid in Olivier’s hair, “I think she’s always hoped I would be a good influence on you.”

_“Really.”_ Olivier rolled her eyes and shrugged the woman off her shoulder forcefully. “Shows how well she knows you.”

“Ugh.” She straightened and dusted off her sparkling silver gown. “You’re still the same as ever, aren’t you? I really could do wonders for-” she waved her hands vaguely at Olivier’s hair and clothes “whatever you have going on here. Of course, there’s not much I can do about-” she waved her hands again, “the rest of you.”

“Thank heavens, the world doesn’t need more of you.”

She sniffed, indignantly, her nose crinkling, then her gaze fell on Miles and her face lit up. “Ooh, Livvie, who’s this?”

“Major Miles is my adjutant.”

She held out a hand, not to shake, but to kiss. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Major.” Miles inclined his head awkwardly, but made no move to kiss her hand. “Aren’t you going to ask my name?”

“Ah,” he glanced helplessly at Olivier who was glaring at the ceiling. Catherine was inching away uncomfortably. He turned back to the woman, and took her proffered hand but didn’t kiss it. Up close, he noticed she was wearing a gaudy ring over her glove. “Pleased to meet you, Miss-?”

“Eloise Polikarpov.” She tossed her hair, and smiled charmingly. “Do you have to hang around the harpy all night?”

“Er, I’m sorry?”

“What I mean to say is, surely you don’t need to work all evening. Wouldn’t you like to have fun? Maybe dance a little, spend some time with a lady?”

“I’m afraid I don’t see any ladies who catch my attention.”

Eloise’s eyes widened and she huffed indignantly. “Well, I _never-!_ ” She spun on her heel and sashayed away angrily.

Olivier snorted and set off, again. Miles followed her across the room. She headed to an alcove in a corner behind a rather elaborate array of candelabras and vases of flowers. He watched as she angrily began yanking the braid out of the hair.

“Leave it in.” He stopped her hand, gently. “It looks nice.”

She snorted. “Well, now it’s half in, half out.”

He smiled fondly. “Here, I’ll redo it.” He began rebraiding gently.

“No chance we can hide back here all night?”

He chuckled. “Probably not. I think your parents will object.”

“Who cares?” She scowled. “Ouch! Don’t tug!”

“I’m not tugging.” He retorted. “You’re squirming. And, to answer your question, _you_ care.”

“I do not.”

He thought about contradicting her, but decided against it. He finished the braid and began tying it off. “ _Why_ do you care?”

Olivier tugged the end of her braid out of his fingers, and turned as though to leave their little alcove. She stopped. “Do you know when I gave up on being accepted by them?”

“No,” he admitted, “I don’t know.”

“Me either.” She glanced back at him, before stepping back out onto the dance floor. “I still don’t know if I have.”

-

“Have you thought anymore about dancing with me, Oli?”

Olivier glared at Mustang. “Have _you_ thought about dropping dead?”

He laughed. “Seriously, though. Come dance with me.” He dropped his smile for a second, and Olivier regarded him thoughtfully.

“Fine.” She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing waiter. “After I finish this.”

They marched toward the dance floor just as Vanessa made her way over. They greeted each other, casually, and then Miles turned to her. “Have you ever heard of the ‘Great Waltz’?” She shook her head, puzzled, and then at the same moment they moved closer to the dance floor to watch.

It would have been a great understatement to say that Olivier and Mustang couldn’t agree who should be leading. Olivier was, probably intentionally, trodding on his feet and dragging him roughly. Mustang kept trying to take control, resulting in the pair nearly toppling. Miles winced and glanced at Vanessa, who was also cringing.

“If you don’t mind my asking, how do you know the Colonel?” Miles queried politely. He still hadn’t worked out what they had meant.

“He’s the Madame’s nephew, didn’t Oli tell you?” When Miles shook his head, she continued. “He’s an orphan, poor kid, the Madame raised him.”

“At the bar?” That sounded like a terrible choice for a child.

“Well, above it.” Vanessa narrowed her eyes at him. “Why, you got a problem with the bar?”

“Not at all.” Miles backpedaled. “Oh, ouch!” Mustang had inadvertently steered Olivier into a pillar. She went for her sword, but her mother intervened and she stomped back toward them.

“Ooh, I know that look.” Vanessa grinned broadly at him, and slipped away.

“Are you alright, Sir?”

Olivier flashed him a dark look instead of replying. She gripped his hand suddenly, and Miles started. She pulled back, and Miles found himself holding a small square of folded paper. “Make yourself useful, and grab me some food.”

Confused, Miles found her some hors d'ouevres and then unfolded the paper cautiously. It read “Capt. Gloster, headed your way”. It made no sense to Miles, but obviously had to Olivier. He pocketed it and gave Olivier her food. They spent most of the rest of the ball skulking, or as Olivier put it “avoiding the horror”.

A few hours in, though, Miles’ stomach dropped as the band started a new dance.

“This is an Ishvalan dance.” It was being played much more slowly than it ought to have been, but there was no mistaking it.

Olivier listened for a moment and then nodded. “Typical Amestrian society. Take everything that it considers of value from a culture and claim it as it own, all the while despising that very culture.” She looked up at him. “We can go, if you want.”

Miles was watching the dance. While the Amestrians were doing all the right motions they had taken all the rigor and wildness from them, turning it into a kind of parody. “They’re doing it wrong.”

“I know.”

“This is a competitive dance, it should get very fast, but they’re barely picking up the pace.”

“Do you want to show them how it’s done?” Olivier gave him a dangerous smile.

“You know it?!” Miles’ head snapped toward her. “Properly, I mean?”

She nodded. “Omi taught me; She used to do fun children’s parties when the adults were at the real ones. I remember this one because it’s so competitive.”

Miles took deep breath. It was dangerous for sure, but the musicians were practically falling asleep and the memories of throwing himself into the dance as a teen, his grandfather clapping and cheering along, were overwhelming. “Alright.”

Olivier paused to stash her sword under the table, which Miles was grateful for, he would have been continuously smacked with it throughout the dance, otherwise. She whispered something to the orchestra’s conductor, and then they joined the line of couples on the dance floor.

They waited a moment, back to back, and then jumped in when the cyclical tune began over. Forward, spin, back, spin, hands meet, left-kick, clap, right-kick, spin, back, forward, and so on they danced. Whatever Olivier had whispered to the conductor had obviously worked, because the orchestra picked up the pace.

Amestrian couples began dropping like flies, some amused, others irritated. Faster and faster, the tune soared and Miles and Olivier kept up; getting dizzier and more and more breathless with each turn. It wasn’t long before they were the last couple standing, and several people clapped optimistically. The clapping faded when they kept going, ever faster and faster. All the training in Briggs, even with it’s altitude, could not make them impervious to the effects of the Ishvalan dance and they began to stumble a bit, never slowing down. 

Miles’ chest felt like it would explode and he suspected Olivier was running on sheer stubbornness, alone. He was determined, though, not to give in. Though his grandfather, and father, had both passed some years before he felt he would be letting them down not to continue. He was feeling remarkably light-headed when it happened. Olivier, mid-spin, stepped wrong; dizzy and unaccustomed to her shoes, she slid and fell. Miles gave a gasp of relief and dropped to his knees, triumphant. Olivier skidded across the floor as though it were slick ice rather than marble.

They looked at each other a moment and then she pushed herself up, tugging her coat back into place and panting. She grinned and then looked past him, her face falling immediately. Miles turned, nervously, and saw Angelica bearing down on them hands on hips. Philip was laughing and clapping, delighted, and the other guests hastened to join in, even as Angelica gripped both Miles and Olivier by their shoulders and shuffled them out of the room.

He sat, obediently, on a settee in a nearby drawing room as Mrs. Armstrong ranted about dangerous associations, and foolhardy spectacles. He bowed his head, abashed. Olivier, sprawled on the sofa opposite him, was angrily ignoring both him and her mother. Miles wished she wouldn’t. As Mrs. Armstrong finished her lecture Miles realized her rants were her own, odd, way of showing she cared. His stomach churned guiltily. She left them with a final, hissed, warning to stay put and returned to her guests.

“Can you believe her?” Olivier muttered, angrily. “She treats me like a child, still.”

“She loves you.” Miles countered, giving her a soft smile.

“Whatever.” Miles expected her to storm off and was pleasantly surprised when she listened to her mother and stayed on the sofa.

They sat in silence, and then a head poked through the door. “I thought you might be on the naughty sofa.” Amue let herself in and perched next to her sister.

“It’s not a -” Olivier gritted her teeth as the realization sunk in. “What do you want?”

“To see if you’re alright.” Amue smoothed her pink skirt. “That looked like quite the fall.”

“All part of the dance.” Olivier grunted, obviously still peeved about being in a veritable time-out.

“Right.” Amue grinned suddenly. “Remember when you and little Roy Mustang tried to do a waltz because Mother and Miss Mustang thought it would be cute? And then you knocked over a whole cake table, because you two couldn’t stop fighting?”

“Yes.” Olivier rolled her eyes. “What of it?”

“That’s what that just reminded me of.” Amue smiled fondly down at her older sister. “You’re still so stubborn, aren’t you?”

“I’m determined, there’s a difference.”

“Which is why this is your first public appearance since you came of age. You didn’t come home for my debutante ball, even though I wrote and asked you to. I don’t think Strongine has forgiven you for not doing her tea ceremony, either.” Amue frowned, tears glistening suddenly in the corners of her eyes. “Why come home now?”

“Mother made me.” Olivier told her, irritated. She frowned when her sister began to cry in earnest. “It’s not that I wanted to miss yours, Amue, I was at the Academy and they don’t just let you leave. Not to mention, balls are so-”

“I know you hate balls, but what about us? Don’t we matter to you at all?” Amue rubbed her eyes with massive fists. “Sorry, sister, I didn’t mean to-”

“Mother and Father were publicly humiliated, having to cancel my debutante ball because I was in jail. That’s not the sort of thing socialites forget in just three years. It would have been a dark spot on your ball. It was easier-”

“Easier for who?” Amue pulled a handkerchief from a pocket in the folds of her skirt and blew her nose noisily.

“Everyone.” Olivier told her, firmly. “I wasn’t expecting to come home again, ever, so-”

“Ever?” Amue snorted. “Well, you _almost_ managed that!” She rose and started toward the door.

“I thought I was going to die, Mue.” Olivier’s words halted her sister in her tracks. “I thought it would be better if you were used to me being gone.” Amue turned back toward her sister, her face a mixture of pain and disbelief. “I still could, any day. What I do, who I am, it’s dangerous. I could be killed by a Drachman assassin, or a falling icicle. I could get lost in a sudden blizzard on a routine patrol, one of my men could up and decide to stab me, again. I could be poisoned by that idiot, Henschel’s stupid experiments when his squad has KP, I could-”

“Again, Livvie?” Amue’s voice had taken on a dangerous tone.

“What? Oh no, that was just heartburn, but-”

“You said stabbed by one of your men, again. What happened?”

“It was nothing.” Olivier was not looking at her sister.

“What happened?! Tell me, Livvie!”

Olivier rose, still not looking at her sister, and unbuttoned her coat. She lifted her undershirt and turned, revealing the angry red scar on her right side. “It was a failed hit. An old ‘friend’ from the Academy was angry that I matched his rank, even though he graduated three years before me. He’s part of High Command, though, so he assigned me an adjutant who had previously threatened to kill me.”

“Livvie,” Amue breathed. “Father has friends in High Command, why didn’t you tell him?”

“Because,” Olivier lowered her shirt and began rebuttoning her coat. “I’m a soldier. This is part of the life. Besides, there are many, many, hundreds of soldiers who don’t have influential fathers to bail them out. Who am I to disrespect their sacrifices?”

With a cry, Amue pulled her sister into a tight hug, sweeping her feet off the ground. Olivier dangled in her sister’s arms, allowing her hair to be a sort of handkerchief for an impressive amount of time before she wriggled out of her sister’s grasp.

“Mue, promise me you won’t say anything to anyone?” Amue sniffled and didn’t respond. “Amue Evelyn Armstrong, swear you won’t tell a soul.” Olivier ordered darkly and Amue nodded meekly.

“I swear upon my honor as an Armstrong.” Amue dabbed her face with her handkerchief and sniffled again.

“Thank you.” Olivier sank back onto the sofa. “You’d best go before you’re missed.” Amue nodded and headed back toward the party.

“That was brave, love.” Miles murmured to Olivier when he was sure Amue was out of earshot.

“There’s nothing brave about causing pain to the ones you love.”

“That’s true,” Miles agreed, and crossed the room to sit beside her. “She will always feel pain for you. But, you were brave to let her see that you love her. She will still worry for you, but she knows you love her and that makes the worry worth it.”

“Do you really believe that?” Olivier asked, eyes unfathomable.

“I don’t have to.” Miles touched her cheek gently. “I live it.”

“You worry about me?” She cocked her head, like he had just explained a complicated alchemical equation, and she couldn’t quite understand it.

“Every day.” He clenched his jaw, surprised it was even a question. “Every time that I have to leave you alone, I worry. Every time I peel back another onion-like layer of your past, I worry.”

“Why does my _past_ worry you?” She was still tilting her head, apparently mystified.

“I’m afraid one day it will be too much.” He admitted. “I’m afraid that someday you’re going to break under all that weight.” He expected her to be angry, to shout, to sneer, to maybe even slap him. Instead she furrowed her brow.

“You’re the one who lived through a genocide.”

He bowed his head. “It hurts, everyday. I _do_ fear that someday I’ll break. But I have a reason to keep going on; I have a mission. I have hope for my future, for the future of my people. If I ever break, I know you’ll put the pieces of me back together, or just dispose of me if I’m too far gone. I can be replaced. If you break, and I cannot save you, then the Northern Wall of Briggs falls. When that day comes, the nation falls.”

“You put too much faith in me, Miles. And not enough in yourself.” Olivier clutched his hands, and he was surprised to feel they were as cold as they would be at Briggs. “If I break--and I assure you I will not--then you will be able to take over for me. At the end of the day all I do is stand between Amestris and Drachma. You have a much higher calling; When the time is right, you have to be the one standing between Amestris and Ishval, and not at all in the way we stand now.” She paused. “Miles, if I ever fall you have to go on.”

Miles nodded, and then there was nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, I love and cherish your comments. :)


	28. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the penultimate chapter. Wow.

The next morning they arose early and headed out for the first train North. Given how late the party had gone the night before, Miles hadn’t expected to see any of Olivier’s family members. However, Angelica bustled up to them with a large box.

“For that lovely Warrant Officer Karley and his friends.” She told them, shoving the box into Miles’ arms. “He told me, Livvie, when you were too busy to talk and I was waiting to see if you would find time, that the rations are just awful. And there’s so little to do for fun. Anyway, I’m sending some of the famous Armstrong seasoning mixes and a few books. Also, a couple of jigsaw puzzles, a chess set-”

“You’ll spoil them, Mother.” Olivier attempted to take the box from Miles and hand it back.

“Alex assures me these things are perfect.” She shoved the box back into Miles’ arms. “Just take it, Livvie.” 

“Fine.” Olivier scowled. “Come on, Major.” She turned on her heel and attempted to leave; Her mother, however, caught her and pulled her into a tight hug. Olivier struggled, relented, patted her mother on the back, and then departed.

On the train, Olivier surprised Miles by prying the box open. “Ugh. Kitten puzzles, honestly.” She rattled around, “I can’t believe her. Our rations are fine.” She, regardless, pocketed a small jar of honey as subtly as she could. “Aha!” She grabbed a thick book and shook it. A thin file folder tumbled out. She tossed the book back into the box.

“What’s that, Sir?” Miles asked her, curiously.

“Alex’s assurance.” She slid the folder into her bag. “Well, Major,” she peered back into the box, “fancy a game of Tiddlywinks?”

\---

Back in Briggs, Miles sat at his desk and began reading through the reports from the week. It had, thankfully, been fairly uneventful on the Drachman front, and the men had not slacked, which was a relief.

“Miles, what positions do we currently have open?” Olivier had begun reading through the folder she had taken from the box her mother sent.

“We don’t need any more men, if that’s what you mean, Sir.”

“Right. Where would you put, say, a Captain if we received one?” She was tapping the edges of the folder thoughtfully.

“Mountain Guard, or Research and Development, Sir.” He thought for a minute. “A fair shot wouldn’t go amiss on the roof, either. If I may, Sir, is this about the note you received from-?” She cut him off with a dark look.

“Yes. Here.” She held out the file and Miles crossed the room to take it. “Where would you put a sergeant, or even a private?”

“Icicles, livestock, supplies, maybe the kitchens, Sir, assuming no other useful skills presented themselves.” He looked down at the file. It was, as he suspected, the personnel file of Captain Gloster.

“Which of those would you say is the worst?” There was a dangerous, almost mischievous, glint in her eye.

“I wouldn’t know, Sir.” He admitted, tearing his eyes from the file. “I was in combat until I got transferred to supplies. Senior level supply work is all desk, I never did the actual inventory and loading.”

“Hmm. Fetch me Buccaneer, then.”

Resigning himself to reading the file when she had her question answered, Miles picked up the phone and ordered Karley to send Buccaneer up. He had barely started reading when Buccaneer arrived, getting just far enough to find out the Captain had been an MP in the East.

“Captain Buccaneer,” Olivier greeted, crisply. “I trust you helped ensure things ran smoothly in my absence?”

“Yes, Sir.” Buccaneer grinned at her, suddenly. “I hear you made _quite_ the impression in Central.”

Olivier scowled at him. “What I do in my spare time is none of you business, Captain. Tell me, which is the worst position: icicles, livestock, supplies, or kitchen?”

“Depends, Sir.” Buccaneer mused. “Icicles is kind of a strain on the back, and dull. Livestock has to deal with the smell, though.” With limited outdoor access for half of the year, the livestock sector could get extremely rank.

“Excellent. When Captain Gloster arrives you will be responsible for showing him the ropes of the livestock sector. Until then, I recommend you figure out how it works down there. Dismissed.”

Looking offended, Buccaneer saluted her and left. 

Miles returned to reading the file, not bothering to conceal his smirk. Gloster, it seemed, was a particularly unsavory MP who was being punished for causing more fights than he resolved. As reasons for banishment went, it was fairly standard. He hardly thought it was worth all the cloak-and-dagger Mustang had initiated, until he read the name of the last person he had tangled with: First Lieutenant Riza Hawkeye. Well, Mustang certainly was overprotective, and he would want to make sure anyone who messed with his favorite subordinate would be duly punished.

Still something about the exchange rankled him. “Sir, why all the secrecy?” Miles asked, handing the folder back.

“Technically, Mustang could get in trouble for passing me that information before it came through the correct channels.” Olivier began shredding the file. “Besides, it’s a sort of game. It started back when Christmas first started dragging him along on her visits to the manor. We were supposed to be really quiet, ‘children should be seen and not heard’ and all. So we passed notes. I think Mustang never outgrew it.”

“How long have you known the Colonel, Sir?” Miles queried, surprised.

“Since I was, hmm, ten or so?” She frowned thoughtfully. “I’m not sure, he’s a few years older than Alex and he certainly wasn’t a genius toddler writing notes or anything. Regardless, he’s been a continuous pain in my rear since whenever that was.”

“If he lived at Madame Christmas’ and so did you-”

“He was away at Alchemy training and I was at the Academy. We shared the same roof for all of four months, I think. Not even all at once. Besides, he lived in the Madame’s apartment and I rent a room. Hardly a shared dwelling, more like living in the same apartment complex. Where everyone knows everyone...And eats together because there’s only one kitchen.” She frowned. “How is this relevant?”

“Just curious, Sir.” Miles grinned at her. “I’m thinking you can’t hate him as much as you claim, or he would have died a long time ago.”

“Would you like to help Buccaneer with the livestock? I can arrange that.”

“Not at all, Sir. Sorry, Sir.” Miles hastened to make his paperwork seem important; too important to be shoved off on someone else while he mucked out.

\---

 _“So.”_ Buccaneer perched on his bunk, and studied Miles eagerly.

“So, what?” Miles didn’t look up from the book he had borrowed from Karley’s new collection.

“The Queen’s family. What are they like?”

“Why do you care?” Miles reluctantly bookmarked his page. “They’re not _your_ in-laws.”

Buccaneer snorted. “Because, it’s _the Queen_. And, I’ve met her brother. Just curious if the family is more Major Armstrong or more Major General Armstrong.”

“Definitely more Major Armstrong, though there is some General Armstrong in there, too.”

“Hmm.” Buccaneer examined his automail for a moment. “Does she do that whole ‘I hate you, but I secretly love you’ thing with all of them?”

“Most.” Miles frowned at him. “How do you know about that?” Buccaneer gave him a long look. “Oh, right. I sometimes forget how long you’ve known her.”

Buccaneer gave him another look, this one somewhere between searching and suspicious. “Does it bother you?”

“No.” Miles fiddled with his book. “Does it bother you?”

“What?”

“You’ve known her for so long. Does it ever bother you that she-”

“Chose you?” Buccaneer raised his brows. “Nah. I never saw her that way, you know? She’s like a, um-” He frowned like he was confused. “Who’s someone you love, and would die for, but you know, they don’t need you to look after them?”

Miles’ brow creased. “Do you mean like a sibling?”

“Yeah!” Buccaneer grinned, “she’s like a sibling! Speaking of, did you know the Mrs. tried to set Karley up with one of her sisters?”

“When? And which one?” Miles stared.

“Over the phone. You know, he was chatting with her when the Queen was dodging her calls. Thinking of starting a long-distance book club. Anyway, she thought he would like an, um, Amue, I think it was?”

“She’s very kind.” Miles agreed. “Granted, Karley would only come up to her elbow.”

Buccaneer let out a barking laugh, turning abruptly to more pressing matters. “Hey, did you know they’re designing a new arm with a circular blade? It just pops out when you press the button, and _bam!_ I’m dying for them to let me try it, but Research says the button is tricky. Their first test subject gave himself a nice shave trying to comb his hair.”

“Really?” Miles reopened his book and let Buccaneer happily rattle off the specifications, giving the occasional dreamy sigh.

\---

It really shouldn’t have surprised Miles when, two days after Gloster’s arrival, there was a scuffle in livestock and he was called in to intervene. Nevertheless, he was surprised that Briggs’ Bears could be so rattled by a newbie that they called for backup. Marching resolutely into the feed store, where the fight had broken out, Miles saw Buccaneer grappling with Gloster. That, at least, explained the terror of the sergeant who called in a plea for help.

“Captain Buccaneer!” Miles called sternly. “What is the meaning of this?” The men broke apart and snapped to attention, Gloster somewhat more resentfully than Buccaneer.

“Sorry, Sir!” Buccaneer looked abashed, though that might have been the result of the copious amounts of hay on his uniform. “A quarrel that got out of hand is all, Sir!”

“Is that so?” Miles felt his friend was holding back. He turned to the sergeant who had radioed. “Tell me what you saw, Sergeant.” The sergeant desperately wanted to get back to work and would be truthful, if he wasn’t too afraid of the two captains. “I’ll ensure there is no retaliation.”

“Thank you, Sir.” The sergeant breathed a sigh of relief. “Captain Buccaneer was shoveling hay for the horses, and Captain Gloster was,” he glanced at the captain in question, “uh, not. Captain Buccaneer told him to get back to work, and Captain Gloster said he was an MP, not a stable hand, Sir. Captain Buccaneer told him he was whatever General Armstrong said he was, Sir. Sir, Captain Gloster-”

“Drop the formalities.” Miles pinched his nose. “No titles, no sirs, just tell me what happened.”

“Yes, sir! Er, sorry. Gloster said he knew the General’s brother and that he was a coward, and an Ishvalan-sympathizer. Buccaneer told him to shut up and shovel. Gloster said they were the same rank, and maybe he would take stupid orders from a woman but he wasn’t going to. Then Buccaneer did that intimidating thing with his arm, and Gloster said maybe he was a dirty Ishvalan-sympathizer, too. Buccaneer called him a half-witted son of a Drachman and then-”

“I can guess.” Miles cut the sergeant off. “Who threw the first punch?” He turned back to the captains still at attention.

“It was a mutual thing, Sir.” Buccaneer told him. “Hard to say, really.”

“Hmm.” Miles dismissed the sergeants and, when the room was empty, save for the two captains, turned to Gloster. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

“Captain Buccaneer threw the first punch, Sir.” The new captain grunted. “I was only acting in self-defense.”

“Interesting.” Miles considered the man before him. “You’re going to need to get better at that, then.”

“Sir?”

“Self-defense. No one here is going to defend you.” He pulled off his glasses and watched Gloster’s face pale as he stuttered in shock. “And you’ve managed to insult the three most powerful people here on your second day. Not a good start, Captain. Not at all. Briggs is, after all, a dangerous place.”

“Is that a threat, Sir?”

“Consider it a warning.” Miles put his glasses back on and turned to leave. “By the by, Buccaneer, the General says you can go back to the Mountain Guard as soon as you’re confident Gloster won’t screw this up. Also, don’t you dare bring any of that livestock smell up with you, or I’ll make you sleep on the roof.”

“You’re as cold as she is, Sir.” Buccaneer grunted at his back. Miles chuckled at him and departed.

-

Two weeks later, Miles followed Olivier back down to the livestock sector. Captain Gloster glared sullenly at them when they entered, but managed at least the pretense of a respectful salute.

<>“You see, Captain,” Olivier spoke without releasing him from his salute, “you have two choices here. You can give up your pride, your past life, and become a Briggs’ Bear. Or,” she clenched the handle of her sword. “You can leave Briggs.”

Even in a stiff salute, Gloster’s shock registered on his face. Olivier saluted him back and briskly ordered him at ease. “Leave Briggs, Sir?” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “At what cost?”

She smiled coldly and shook her head. “Do you value your career?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Tch!” She glared fiercely at him. “Your career is irrelevant, soldier! What matters here, what matters in all situations, is the lives of your countrymen!” She drew herself up. “Well, you’re staying here for now, soldier.” She spun on her heel and marched away determinedly.

-

Again, Miles followed Olivier to meet with Gloster.

“Gloster!”

“Yes, Sir?”

“If you were given orders to kill a civilian, what would you do? Would you follow orders or disobey, soldier?”

“Follow orders, Sir!”

“Tch! You’re a coward, soldier!”

-

And again.

“What matters more to you, Captain? Your reputation or your life?”

“Sir?”

“Which matters more?”

“My life, Sir?”

“Hmm.” A cold smile. She spun on her heel and left the increasingly bewildered Captain behind.

-

And _again._

“Do you think you’re the first soldier who thinks they’re too good to be here?”

“No, Sir.”

“Do you think you’re better than my other soldiers?”

“No, Sir.”

Olivier raised her brows at him. “Really?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“You don’t think you’re too good for this?” She indicated the rank stable, with one pristine gloved hand.

“No, Sir.”

“Excellent." She fixed him with a piercing gaze. "You’d better not be lying to me, Soldier.”

-

Later, Miles raised a hand to Olivier’s door and rapped sharply. She called for him to enter and he did. She was sitting at her desk, head bowed over paperwork, but to his relief was wearing pajamas. He quickly hung up his uniform and pulled her into his arms.

“I’ve missed you, love.” He murmured into her hair.

“We see each other every day, Miles.”

“Not like this.” He replied, smoothly. “I’ve only been able to see General Armstrong. I missed my Liv.”

“We’ve been busy.”

“I know.” He guided her to sit on her bunk, which seemed especially small after the luxury of Central. “I don’t want to talk about work, but why are you spending so much time on Gloster?”

She studied him a minute. “You don’t know?”

“No.” He admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed.

“In my experience, the soldiers that least want to be here--the ones who are angry--are the ones who will be the most loyal.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “Look at you.”

“Me?”

“You were one of the angriest soldiers I had ever met. And now, you’re my most valued subordinate.”

“That was different.” He protested weakly.

“True. Look at Buccaneer, then. He was fine by the time he got here, but out West, he was just a ball of displaced anger. Now he’s my loyal friend.”

He smiled fondly. “Alright, I concede your point.” He kissed her, but she was distracted. He pulled back and waited to hear what was on her mind.

“We’ve come full circle, haven’t we?”

“How do you mean?”

“We never wanted to be here, but we don’t even try to deny it anymore, this is our home. Now we’re repeating the cycle with another soldier.”

“So long as you don’t marry him.” He teased, earning a slap upside the head. Nevertheless, she turned and kissed him, all talk of work apparently forgotten.

Later, when Olivier was asleep he found himself lying awake, pondering the years that had passed since he first came to Briggs. He thought of the Ice Queen who wasn’t really cold, at all. Of Buccaneer and Karley and friends that were more like family, and Gloster who would would either conform to their way of life or be forced to leave the Fort forever. And he thought of the Fort itself, which to outsiders seemed a sort of prison, but to them, it’s inhabitants, was a haven. A home. _Yes,_ he thought, tightening his grip on Olivier, as his eyes began to flutter closed, _this is home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize this definitely leaves some unanswered questions. Never fear, there's an epilogue! 
> 
> (...And a sequel.)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	29. Epilogue (Onward)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, at the end. Thanks so much for staying with me, and I hope you enjoy this last chapter!

_“People of Amestris, today will always be a day marked by sorrow. We stand now, in the settling dust of a coup d’etat, and wonder how it all went wrong. But, we also have hope. Even in light of all that’s happened today, we have the chance to move forward as a nation--unified--and rebuild. So, for today, let’s focus on what matters: the nation is safe. Tomorrow is a new day.”_

_“General Grumman,General Grumman! A few questions!”_

_“Go ahead.”_

_“Why did Briggs march on Central?”_

_“Who killed the Fuhrer?”_

_“How much of High Command was involved?”_

_“How can we be sure we’re safe now?”_

_“Is it true there was an alchemical component?!”_

_“Ladies, gentlemen, one at a time, please! To begin with, we know several of the deceased generals: Gardner, Fox, and Raven were involved in the conspiracy. Of the living generals, Edison and Clemin, are being held awaiting court martial-”_

_“What about General Armstrong?”_

_“Wasn’t General Raven missing prior to-”_

The radio shut off with a click and Miles’ head snapped up, as his hand went to his gun, but it was only Karley.

“It’s enough to make you sick isn’t it, Sir?”

“Hmm?” Miles stretched the crick in his neck and glanced at the clock. It was extremely late, especially for a press conference, but it wasn’t every day a coup d’etat shook the foundations of the country.

“General Grumman wasn’t even here and he’s-”

“I wasn’t either.” Miles spoke less to the lieutenant and more to the unconscious figure on the makeshift infirmary bed he was sitting beside.

“Sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean-” the lieutenant trailed off looking pained, and Miles let it slide.

“It’s alright, Lieutenant, you should go get some rest. There’s still a lot of work to do.”

“With respect, Sir, maybe you should rest. I’ve already had a sleep shift. I can watch the general.”

“Lieutenant, I-”

“You don’t need to sit up all night, Sir. The whole mansion is being used as overflow for the hospital. I’ll sit outside and guard the door. No one will look at it twice.”

Miles glared sharply. “What are you implying, Lieutenant?”

Karley raised his brows at him. “Do you know what it takes to be a successful gossip-monger in Briggs? It’s not about running around finding out secrets to tell, but about knowing everyone’s secrets and deciding which are safe to tell and which should remain secret.” He smiled. “With respect, Sir, you and the general were always a secret worth keeping.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “Alright, then. Go ahead.”

Karley drew back and saluted. “Yes, Sir!”

\---

Miles woke to the sound of a scream and nearly catapulted out of bed from the sheer shock. He switched on the light and grabbed a knife from the bedside table. He didn’t need it, however; he and Olivier were alone in the room. She was no longer screaming, but sitting bolt upright with an arm across her face. For a moment, he was bewildered and then the horrible truth hit him; she hadn’t _stopped_ screaming, rather she had muffled the sound by biting her own arm.

He caught her shoulder with one hand, and with the other gently pulled her arm free. “Liv, wake up. It’s just a nightmare, love. Wake up.” Her eyes snapped open and she stared at him. Tears ran down her cheeks. “Hey, love,” he reached up to wipe at her tears, “are you alright?”

“I-” she faltered, looking around, trying to get her bearings, “I’m fine.”

“Please don’t lie to me.” He moved closer to her, sliding his hand to her back and rubbing it soothingly. She hissed when he got too close to her fractured ribs and he murmured a soft apology. “What were you dreaming about?”

“I don’t remember.”

Miles studied her for a moment, debating pressing her, but he decided against it. He waited silently in the semi-darkness.

“Buccaneer is dead.” She wasn’t looking at him.

Fresh grief washed over him. “I know.” He watched her; she continued staring at the wall. “I’m so sorry, Liv.” She swallowed, as though forcing back tears. “I can’t stop thinking if only I were here-”

“Don’t!” Olivier cut him off sharply. “There is no room in Briggs for ‘if only’s and ‘what if’s. They accomplish nothing and serve no one.”

Her tone was so harsh that he replied, “Yes, Sir!” almost on instinct.

“Grief is for the weak!” She snarled, but then spoke more softly. “I lost a lot of men today.”

He took her uninjured hand, small and cold, in his. “We lost a lot of men today.”

“It is the price of war.” Her voice was steady, but she tilted her face just enough for him to see the tears still running down her cheeks.

“It is.” He agreed. “Doesn’t mean you can’t grieve.”

She looked at him, at last; her face was still damp with tears, though she was no longer crying. “He was my friend, and this seems so naive, but I-” she swallowed thickly “I just never thought I could lose him.”

“I know, love.”

They sat in silence for so long Miles wondered if Olivier had fallen asleep sitting up, but then she spoke. “Did you hear Fox is dead?”

He hesitated. “Did you-?”

“No.” He let out a breath of relief, but she continued. “Technically, I didn’t kill him, but only because the homunculus smashed him. I was disappointed to find out Blackburn wasn’t in on the conspiracy. I would have loved the excuse to take him out.”

“You shouldn’t say that, Olivier-”

“I shot General Gardner in the head.”

“Oh.”

“Officially, I’ll be responsible for Fox’s death, I’m sure.” She spoke as casually as though discussing the weather.

“That makes _three_ Generals, Liv.”

“I can count, thanks.” She scoffed.

“You’ll never be Fuhrer.” He murmured, concern lacing his voice. “They’re going to try and blame you for as much as possible, Liv. The more Edison and Clemin can pin on you, the lighter their sentencing. And anything Blackburn can use against you, he will.”

Olivier scowled at his tone. “You worry too much. They’ll destroy each other in their desperation to shift the blame.” But, when she spoke next, it was the most defeated he had ever heard her. “You’re right. I’ve lost it _all._ ”

Miles considered her for a long minute. “You saved your country. That’s always been what mattered most to you.” She snorted, but didn’t respond. “Your family is safe, thanks to you. And you still have me,” he offered with a self-depreciating smile, “whatever that’s worth.”

“No.”

“Er, sorry?”

She drew a breath and looked at him head-on. “I’m about to lose you, too.” He opened his mouth to question her, absolutely bewildered, but closed it again. She continued with a bitter snort. “To _Mustang_ , of all people.”

“I would never-” he interjected, offended.

“Yes, you _will_.” She smiled at him suddenly, making him all the more nervous. “He’s starting a project to rebuild Ishval. You are _exactly_ the person he needs.”

He stared, momentarily slack-jawed with shock. “He’s really going to do it?”

She nodded. “There’s something, well, someone, else, too.”

“The scar-faced Ishvalan you smuggled in here?”

She blinked. “How did you know?”

“Karley.”

“The little brat. I ought to-” she trailed off. Obviously, after the day’s events, threatening death and dismemberment didn’t appeal to her as it usually did.

“Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “why?”

“He’s going to help us with the Ishval project.” Her eyes glittered darkly. “And if he refuses," she shrugged, "no one knows he’s even alive.”

“Ah.” He watched her shift and wince, clutching her broken ribs. “Perhaps we should discuss this later.”

“I’m fine, Miles.” She scowled at him.

“Mmh.” He brushed the hair out of her face and leaned forward to kiss her forehead. “You should sleep, love. You’re injured, you need to rest.”

“I’m fi-”

“Shh, love.” He kissed her, tenderly. “Go to sleep.” She scowled darkly, but obediently leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes. He smiled fondly, and curled around her as close as he dared without exacerbating her injuries. “I’ll still be here when you wake.”

Her breathing quieted, but when Miles drifted to sleep he knew she was still wide awake, blue eyes staring blankly into the darkness above them and her mind, ever active, turning the past several weeks’ events over and over again.

\---

“Fuhrer Grumman, Sir!” Olivier’s words were polite, but her tone sounded more like a challenge than anything.

“Yes, General?” Grumman asked benignly, as the other generals in the room eyed her warily; no one had officially laid the blame of the Promised Day at her feet, but it was plain they were all playing the long-game--waiting to see who the people would accept as guilty, and who would be martyrs.

“I understand Colonel, excuse me, _Brigadier General_ Mustang would like Major Miles to be the ground commander for the Ishval Project?”

“That’s correct.” Grumman’s eyes narrowed. “Do you object?”

“Yes.”

Miles furrowed his brow and then hastily fixed it.

“You’re retaining Lt. Falman in exchange, Sir, surely-” Mustang began sounding frustrated.

“That’s not my point.” Olivier regarded the council coolly. “I’m not objecting to Miles being Ground Commander, at all. What I do object to is having a Major as GC.”

“Ah.” Grumman smiled. “You would like to see him promoted to Lt. Colonel, then?”

“I wanted him promoted to Colonel, Sir.”

“You can’t just jump your favorite soldier up the ranks because you want to! Promotions are earned, not-”

“Shut up, Sir.”

“Fuhrer, she-!”

“No, she’s quite right, Blackburn. Be quiet.” Grumman nodded to Olivier while Blackburn opened and shut his mouth, sputtering indignantly. “Please, make your case.”

“Yes, Sir.” Olivier passed a thick folder to the Fuhrer. “This is Major Miles’ unofficial service report. I would have filed all of this in his official report, had I not been concerned it would call unnecessary attention to his heritage.” Miles struggled to keep his face neutral as several officers flicked their gazes to him and then away. “If you’ll look where I’ve bookmarked, you can see where I would have promoted him to Lt. Colonel, had I not had legitimate fear for his life.”

“I see your point.” Grumman nodded, regarding the page. Miles wondered at what point Olivier had wanted to promote him and hadn’t.

“I’d like to request a backdated promotion, Sir.”

“I don’t see why not.” Grumman smiled. “I’ll allow it.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Olivier nodded briefly, but wasn’t done. “Further, Sir, if you’ll turn to the second bookmark, you’ll see my notes on his leadership in my absence, specifically the successful counter to the Drachman attack. Obviously, I wasn’t there, but the late Captain Buccaneer wrote a detailed report which I included along with Miles’ own assessment.”

Grumman read in silence for a moment and then turned directly to Miles. “Well, well, you’re quite a hidden gem, aren’t you? I’m surprised Mustang hasn’t snapped you up before.”

“Thank you, Sir.” Miles replied, hoping he didn’t sound too unsure.

Grumman smiled, wide and genuine. “You’re welcome, _Colonel_.”

\---

Miles stared numbly as he watched Olivier, finally without her sling, waiting to board the Northbound train. The rest of the Briggs men had headed back weeks before. Grumman had insisted on keeping her on hand to help with the reorganizing, had claimed it would help with her image. She’d scoffed at him. Miles hadn’t minded. For the first time ever they’d been almost like a normal couple, sharing a bed every night and waking up side by side every morning. But, now, she was leaving.

He wanted to run over and say goodbye to her, but he couldn’t. No one could. In her arms she was holding a simple wooden box with an urn inside. Buccaneer’s ashes. And, while escorting a fallen soldier home, she could neither speak or be spoken to. _Home._ She was going home without him. No, she _was_ his home.

He turned with reluctance and faced his new commander. “I’m ready when you are, Sir.”

Mustang gave him a long look. “Are you sure, Miles? You still have an opportunity to take leave and go home. This might be your last chance for a long time.”

There was that word again. _Home._ “Yes, Sir.” _They say you can never go home again._ “Ishval will be my home now, Sir.”

He spared one last glance over his shoulder just before the train doors slid shut. As if sensing him, Olivier turned her head at the last second, glancing back toward him. _Home will always be with you, my love._

“Right,” he said more to himself than in response to whatever Mustang had just said. “Onward.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for reading! I've truly appreciated every comment I've gotten and would love anymore you all have to share with me! 
> 
> I'm planning both a prequel and a sequel. I set it up to segue naturally into the sequel, but I may do the prequel first since it'll be shorter. I'm rather undecided.

**Author's Note:**

> Much thanks for reading! Please drop a line and let me know what you think!


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